Chuck vs the Intersect
by Notorious JMG
Summary: Team Chuck has reached old age. Their kids are getting ready to carry the torch forward. But when Fulcrum reappears after 25 years of dormancy, the time comes to take up arms once more. "Bright Side" AU, follows "Chuck vs. the Ring of Fire".
1. Prologue

_**Author's Note: **this story marks my return to the "Bright Side" AU after nearly three months away from it. The events of this story take place beginning in April of 2038, approximately twenty-six years after the end of _Chuck vs. the Ring of Fire.

* * *

Getting out of bed in the morning was always an agonizing experience. Chuck Bartowski slowly came to wakefulness, groaning as he did so.

Being fifty-seven years old really SUCKED sometimes. Oh God how he wished he was thirty years younger.

But no such luck. Every single joint in his body hurt when he woke up in the morning. And you didn't even want to get him STARTED on flashes. He had talked the CIA doctors into giving him metraquasil to take care of the headaches afterwards.

He was thankful that he didn't need any assistance in the sexual activity department yet. Sarah Elisabeth Bartowski was still damn hot, and not just for her age, either. Chuck would've never figured a fifty-five year old woman could still turn heads the way Sarah did – especially in Los Angeles.

But the thing that aggravated him most was the fact that right now, Sarah was out on a five mile run, still active as if she was still in her twenties or thirties. Chuck knew that he would have to be carted home in an ambulance if he tried something like that.

So it REALLY pissed him off to think of who she was out on that run with – sixty-five year old John Casey. The man was eight years older than Chuck, and yet, every morning at 6:00 AM, he was at the Bartowskis' front door in Studio City, ready to go for a run.

One of these days, Chuck was going to just get a little too aggravated and kick Casey in his bad knee. That would be the end of that.

And with Sarah out on her run, it was just Chuck in the house with Wolf, their Yorkshire terrier. They had gotten him as a puppy five years before, and Chuck had decided to name him Wolf because of the irony of the name.

Wolf apparently wanted attention, because he came scampering into the room, leapt up onto the bed, and started running around in circles, yelping, with the occasional pause to jump on Chuck's chest and lick his face.

"Alright, alright, I'm awake," Chuck grumbled. He pushed Wolf off of his chest, and then rolled out of bed.

The house was just too damn quiet these days. When they had originally bought it, it had three bedrooms – one of which became Chuck's Nerd Cave – and two bathrooms. As the kids grew, they had expanded it to five bedrooms and four bathrooms. Unfortunately, that put the house less than ten feet from the pool, and more than once when they were teenagers, Chuck had caught his children being less than brilliant and jumping from the roof into the pool.

But they were all gone, and the house was empty and cavernous. Their eldest (by four minutes), Lisa Erin Bartowski, was a lieutenant commander in the United States Navy. She was currently serving as the first officer onboard the USS _Montana_, an old Virginia-class attack submarine on its final patrol. She was slated to screen for command after the _Montana_ was decommissioned. It gave Chuck an overwhelming sense of pride to know that there was a good possibility that his daughter could become one of the youngest submarine commanders in the history of the US Navy's silent service.

John Marcus Bartowski, their son and Lisa's twin, had gone to school in Arizona to study hotel management. When he came back, the Standard Downtown had hired him as their guest services manager. He was now the hotel manager, and was eying the general manager position when the current G.M. retired at the end of the year.

John was also dating somebody who could get him killed if he wasn't careful. That somebody was Rebecca Lynn Casey, the daughter of Brigadier General John Casey (USAF, ret.). They had gone on their first date back in high school, and when John walked into the Casey home, he had been greeted with a tableful of stripped down guns. Casey had looked up at John, grunted, and gone back to cleaning an M-16.

The two had dated on and off throughout high school and college, but when Becca moved back to Los Angeles two years prior after completing her master's in special education at Colorado State, things had really gotten serious. In fact, things were to the point where there were whispered reports from John's sisters that he had been visiting jewelry stores with Becca and looking at rings.

Finally, the Bartowskis' youngest, Alexandra Marie, was in Spain, working for the American Embassy. The Bartowskis had adopted her as an infant, after her father had tried to kill them both and ended up getting killed by Bryce Larkin. The President had personally had to intervene to get the children's court judge to allow the adoption, but in the end, Alex had grown up to be a well adjusted young woman. She got a degree in Anthropology from UCLA with a minor in Spanish, and the State Department had snapped her up almost immediately.

Devin and Ellie still lived in L.A. Their daughter, Katie, had grown up, gone to film school at USC, and met a young man named Tim Michaelson. Tim was now one of the biggest film stars in Hollywood, and Katie was now Katie Michaelson, living in the lap of luxury in Bel-Air.

Carina Hansen had died four years before. She was on a mission nearly twenty years ago in South Africa when she was shot and badly wounded. She had to receive several blood transfusions during the resultant surgery, and despite the rigorous safeguards and precautions in place, she still managed to receive blood contaminated with HIV. After finding out, she had left the DEA, and devoted the remaining fifteen years of her life to raising AIDS awareness worldwide.

Bryce Larkin was still alive and kicking. He and his Navy pilot girlfriend, Rachel Harrison, had never married. In fact, Bryce had once mentioned something to Chuck about how they had an "open" relationship. Chuck couldn't even begin to get his mind around having something like that with Sarah. There was nobody else that he wanted.

Chuck's businesses had remained successful. Nerd Cave Video Games, LLC, had gone public ten years before. Chuck became a billionaire overnight. He still lived a modest life, though, because that was what he knew, what he understood. Studio City Consulting Services still operated, under the leadership of John Casey.

And now, as Chuck stood in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee maker to spit out his coffee – "All the technology advances and I still have to wait five minutes for a decent cup of coffee," he had been heard to grumble – he heard voices approaching the front door. A moment later, the door opened, and in came Sarah and Casey, both clearly worn out from their run.

"Mornin', Bartowski," Casey grunted. "I smell coffee?"

"If you'd waited another ten minutes, you would've smelled bacon, too," Chuck replied.

"The hell he would've," Sarah said sharply. "I'm quite certain that Devin told you NO MORE BACON."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "My cholesterol's low. My blood pressure is fine. Devin's full of shit."

Casey smiled. "I am so not getting involved with this."

A trilling sound filled the kitchen. "And that would be me," Casey groaned. "Please, God, don't let it be the office." He looked at the ceiling, and then seemingly spoke into thin air. "Hello?"

He stood for a moment. Cell phones had turned into cochlear implants about five years before. Oh, sure there were still the application laden gadget-style cell phones for those who wanted them, but for those who were looking for simplicity in communication, you could have a device implanted in your ear that allowed you to speak and hear right inside your own head.

"Becca, slow down," Casey ordered his daughter. "The doctor told you what?"

As Chuck and Sarah watched, Casey's eyes widened. He gripped the back of a chair so tightly that they both thought it was going to break. "You're sure about this?" He paused again. "And John Bartowski is the responsible party?"

Chuck and Sarah's heads whipped around to look at each other. _Oh, shit_, Sarah mouthed to Chuck.

"Alright, honey, you do whatever the doctor told you," Casey said. "And tell John that if he likes his balls, he needs to run and hide." There was a moment's pause, and then Casey said, "I love you too, honey. Bye. End call."

He turned toward Chuck and Sarah. "Well, Bartowski, Walker, your son's a dead man."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "What did John do?"

Casey just shook his head. "Let me put it to you this way, folks. In about seven months, we – all three of us – are gonna be grandparents."

Chuck sighed and wished he was still asleep.

* * *

_**Author's Note: metraquasil**__ is not a real drug. It's a fictional painkiller that I just came up with. Hell, I don't even know what would be in it!_


	2. The Return of Fulcrum

**Wednesday, April 14****th****, 2038  
****2:42 AM Local Time  
****25N 18' 5.96" by 151E 19' 52.24"  
The Pacific Ocean, 2500 kilometers due east of Taipei, Republic of China**

The surface of the Pacific Ocean was still and calm. It had the appearance almost of a pool of glass. To the untrained eye, the ocean was still and undisturbed.

The trained eye, however, would've caught the barest, the faintest of ripples crossing the ocean's surface. Those ripples were caused by the displacement of 7,800 tons of submarine cruising at 23 knots two hundred feet below the ocean's surface.

USS _Montana_ was on her final patrol. The fact that she was due to be retired after only twenty-three years of active duty was a cause of consternation for many – after all, many of the old Los Angeles class boats had seen service well into their thirties. In fact, the USS _Tucson_ was still in service at the ripe old age of forty-three – albeit as a training boat only. However, _Montana_ had seen numerous classified missions that would not be revealed to the public until nearly the end of the twenty-first century, and those missions had taken a fairly severe toll on her.

In the year 2020, five years after her first patrol, _Montana_ had been assigned to a special Department of Defense project known as the Intersect Project. Suspended in 2012, it had been revived at the insistence of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. The Intersect Project often developed highly classified intelligence, and _Montana_ was regularly tasked to act on that intelligence.

During the eighteen years since her assignment to the Intersect Project, _Montana_ had nearly been sunk half a dozen times, had had her conning tower ripped off by an out of control Italian aircraft carrier, and had nearly been torn in half on the Great Barrier Reef. Her most insane mission, however, had been when she had somehow navigated all the way up the Colorado River, running on the surface until she reached Parker Dam, where she put a torpedo into a speedboat that was about to detonate a backpack nuke at the base of the dam.

Not only was that an act that would've destroyed the towns of Parker and Lake Havasu City, but it would've contaminated a good portion of California and Arizona's water supplies, not to mention emptying Lake Havasu into the Colorado River, something that would've devastated the City of Yuma, its 600,000 residents living just a hundred miles downstream from Parker.

The entire crew of the _Montana_ received a Presidential commendation for that particular mission. However, special praise was reserved for the mission commander, the boat's first officer – Lieutenant Commander Lisa Bartowski.

Bartowski was one of fifty women serving in the United States Navy's submarine service. She was one of four onboard the _Montana_. She had gone straight into submarines after graduating from Annapolis in 2032, and earned her dolphins more quickly than all but three officers before her in the history of the US Navy. She spent two patrols onboard the USS _Seawolf_, reaching full lieutenant by the time she left the boat.

In 2036, she began her first patrol onboard the _Montana_. She had been specifically assigned to the boat at the request of Sam Tyler, the President's National Intelligence Director. It so happened that her father, Chuck Bartowski, was the main piece of the Intersect Project – _Montana_'s primary assignment – and Lisa was, herself, a part of the same project.

After a year of serving onboard _Montana_, the former first officer transferred off the boat after developing vertigo. Lisa was promoted to lieutenant commander and assigned as the boat's first officer.

When word reached _Montana_ from the Intersect Project about the plot to blow up Parker Dam, the captain had been sick in his cabin with a severe case of food poisoning. As a result, Lisa had taken command of the boat, and sailed her straight up the Colorado River, arriving just in time to prevent a catastrophe.

During the two months since then, however, there had been little activity from the Intersect Project. _Montana_ had headed out to sea to participate in a wargame exercise with the Australian and Japanese Navies.

Currently, she was stalking the Australian submarine _Brisbane_. _Brisbane_ was part of the Australian Navy's _Sydney_ class, a class of advanced nuclear submarines that were based on America's _Seawolf_ class. Using pumpjet propulsion instead of a standard screw, they were practically silent. In fact, they were regarded by many as being the best submarines in service in any navy.

However, Lisa Bartowski had served onboard the lead ship of the original _Seawolf_ class for four years, and so she knew their quirks. She knew what to listen for, knew how to find one of the boats. And found the _Brisbane_ she had.

Lisa had been trailing the _Brisbane_ for the last six hours, careful to stay in the Australian boat's baffles. They had picked her up at nearly 20,000 yards, and had been carefully closing in ever since. _Montana_'s speed had gradually increased to prevent cavitation and large amounts of noise, and now she was going nearly seven knots faster than the Australian boat, coming up on her tail quickly.

In theory, a _Virginia_ class boat could go considerably faster than 23 knots and maintain silence. In fact, the USS _Hawaii_ had once been clocked at 42 knots and had managed to evade the vaunted SOSUS sonar net in the Atlantic Ocean. However, _Montana_ had suffered so much damage and repair in her lifetime that going much faster than 23 knots meant that there were little divots, bumps, and scrapes on the boat's hull that were going to create mechanical noises.

"Five thousand yards and closing," the tactical officer reported. Lisa Bartowski smiled and stared at the plasma screen display on the forward wall of the control room. Sonar technology was such that it gave the boat a 3D image of the sea ahead that looked almost like video. She had once likened it to the screen on the bridge of the starship _Enterprise_.

Her father approved whole-heartedly.

"Weapons, do we have a firing solution?" she asked, her voice crisp, her demeanor calm. When _Montana _returned from its current mission, she was going to be screened for command. There was a good chance she would be getting her own boat in fairly short order.

"_Bridge, affirmative,_" the voice replied over the squawk box. "_You may fire at your leisure._"

Lisa smiled. The _Brisbane_ was never going to know what hit it.

"Weapons, firing solution confirmed. Tube two, match bearings and shoot!"

There was a slight pop in the air as torpedo tube number two depressurized, and a whooshing sound as the practice shot inside was ejected. "_Practice torpedo fired electronically,_" weapons reported.

"_Conn, sonar, torpedo is running hot and true,_" came another report. "_Aaaand… there goes the _Brisbane!"

Sure enough, on the screen ahead, the _Brisbane_ had engaged in a radical turn and pushed her speed up drastically. However, the US Navy's Mk 56 torpedo ran at nearly eighty knots and could outmaneuver the smallest and most maneuverable boat in the sea.

"_Thirty seconds to impact,_" sonar reported. "_Twenty… fifteen… ten… five…_"

Lisa Bartowski's smile got a little bigger. She picked up the handset of the gertrude underwater telephone. "_Montana_ calling _Brisbane_," she said. "Bang bang, you're toast."

"Montana_, this is _Brisbane," she heard a voice reply mournfully. "_Acknowledge the kill. You got us again._"

"And that's four rounds you owe us now, _Brisbane_," Lisa replied amusedly. "You boys are gonna have the tab from hell."

"_Out of curiosity, _Montana, _how the hell do you keep finding us?_"

Lisa's smile turned into a full on grin. "_Brisbane_, since this was the last run, I don't mind telling you… I served on USS _Seawolf_ for four years. I know EXACTLY how to find y'all."

There was silence for a moment, and then _Brisbane_ came back. "_If I didn't know better, I'd call that cheating._"

Lisa laughed. "_Brisbane_, you have no idea."

* * *

**Tuesday, April 13****th****, 2038  
9:03 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time  
The Standard Downtown Hotel  
Los Angeles, California**

John Marcus Bartowski stood behind the registration desk of the hotel, the very image of the conscientious hotel manager. He was more than just a conscientious hotel manager, though – he was a very _discreet_ hotel manager.

When he graduated from Northern Arizona University in 2032 with a degree in hotel and resort management, he had never figured that he would be catering to the rich and powerful. He had thought that, at best, he'd end up as the manager of a Residence Inn or something like that.

However, somebody at the Standard had caught wind of his résumé, and had called him up, offering him the guest services manager position. John had readily accepted, because it meant that he'd be back home in Los Angeles – an idea he was definitely a fan of.

Then, in 2036, he'd been hit with the double barrels of good luck – the old hotel manager left to become the hotel manager at the Beverly Hilton, and he found out that Becca Casey was moving back to Los Angeles after completing her master's in special education at Colorado State. The first meant that he got a promotion, but the second…

Well, when he had found out about the second, he had spent the next week with a smile on his face. He and Becca had begun dating when they were in high school, and had never gotten serious, but had never really moved on to anybody else, either. And now…

Now he was seriously considering dropping to one knee with a ring in his hand. He could easily see himself spending the rest of his life with the daughter of Brigadier General John Casey.

But right at the moment, he had very wealthy guests to attend to. Such as this one, checking out right now. Mr. Zolis Farthing.

Zolis Farthing – or "Z", as he preferred to be called – had been at the Standard for the last week. He was a friendly, gregarious guy, who had apparently presented the desk clerk with an American Express Black and a two hundred dollar tip when he checked in. He was up at the rooftop bar with a different girl every night – and John had to admit, he somehow managed to bring some of the best looking girls he had ever seen back to the Standard.

However, it always seemed like there was something off about Farthing. Despite his appearance and demeanor, his eyes said something else entirely. They seemed like they were always watching, always calculating. John thought he even looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place him.

But no matter. Farthing was about to check out anyway. "Good morning, Mr. Bartowski," he greeted John with a grin.

"Mr. Farthing," John replied. "I trust your stay with us was pleasant?"

"More than pleasant," Farthing corrected him. "I've stayed in practically every hotel in this damn city, but yours was by far the best. You need to see this again?"

He handed John his American Express card, and John was about to say, _No, we've got it on file, but thank you_, but when he looked down at the card, something happened.

His eyes went wide, and for a split second, his vision went blank.

Then images appeared. The credit card number. A crate marked "FIM-92 Stinger". A Microsoft Excel spreadsheet detailing names and payments. An image of a cocker spaniel.

And one single word, in large red block letters: "FULCRUM".

This all took place in the time that it took John to take one breath. Unlike their father, who had been the unwitting and unwilling recipient of the original Intersect database at the age of 27, John and his sister Lisa had first been exposed to Intersect data when they were fifteen months old. With regular updates since then, their flashes were so finely tuned that they could take place without anybody noticing. This made their father rather envious, as his flashes generally took three to four seconds.

John blinked, and handed the credit card back to Zolis Farthing. "No, we've got it on file, but thank you," he said. He kept a smile on his face, but a chill ran down his spine.

Fulcrum was a terrorist organization that had made his parents' life hell for the first five years that they had known each other. They had thought that it was finally destroyed in 2012 following its full exposure on a national level. However, if he had just been presented a Fulcrum American Express card…

This was a problem.

As soon as Farthing was out the door, he stepped away from the registration desk and into his office. Picking up the phone, he dialed a number from memory.

"_Wienerlicious,_" came a voice from the other end.

"This is Junior One," John replied. "We've got a Foxtrot Alpha in downtown Los Angeles."

There was silence at the other end for a moment, and then the voice came back, stunned. "_Say again, Junior One?!_"

"I repeat, we have a Foxtrot Alpha in downtown Los Angeles," John said, his voice insistent.

"_Jesus Christ,_" the CIA agent at the other end breathed. "_Contact Senior, and then stay put until you receive further instructions._"

"Copy that," John replied, and hung up the phone. Picking the handset up again, he dialed another number.

"_JOHN!_" his father's voice bellowed from the other end as soon as the phone was picked up.

John winced, but he didn't have time for whatever his father's problem was. "Dad, we've got a problem."

"_You're goddamn right we do!_" the voice of Chuck Bartowski boomed in his ear.

John rolled his eyes, but pressed on. "There's a Fulcrum agent in downtown Los Angeles," came out of his mouth, just as his father said, "_Becca Casey is pregnant!_"

John Bartowski froze. Had he just heard his father correctly. "WHAT?!" he asked, just in time for his father to simultaneously say, "_WHAT?!_"

"You first!" John insisted. "WHAT?!"

"_Becca Casey's two months pregnant,_" Chuck replied distractedly. "_What the hell do you mean there's a Fulcrum agent in L.A.?!_"

John's jaw dropped. Becca was pregnant?!

He shook his head. He'd worry about that in a moment. "Yeah. Guy named Zolis Farthing," he told his father. "I flashed on his American Express card."

"_Shit,_" his father breathed. "_Did you contact Wienerlicious?_"

"Of course, Dad," John replied. "I called them before I called you. They told me to wait for further instructions."

"_Let me make something very clear to you, John,_" Chuck Bartowski said. "_If you think for one second that you might be in danger of being taken, you get Becca, and you get the hell out of Los Angeles. Is that clear?_"

"Dad, I'm not leaving you and Mom here if Fulcrum's operating again."

"_John, your mother can take care of the both of us. It's not like we haven't taken on Fulcrum before_."

"Dad –"

"_John, this is NOT negotiable. Do I make myself clear?_"

John Bartowski sighed. "Yes, sir."

* * *

**4:04 AM Local Time  
25N 18' 5.96" by 151E 19' 6.12"**

Lisa Bartowski was still at the conn of the _Montana_. She was headed for Taiwan at full steam, her speed up to forty-six knots. At her current speed, she would reach the island nation in about twenty-nine hours.

Of course, that was until the radio went _DING!_, indicating the receipt of a VLF message. Lisa sighed. Depending on what the message contained, it could slow _Montana_ down significantly.

"_Conn, radio, we have a verified VLF message ordering us to surface for voice communication._"

"Goddammit," Lisa grumbled. "Alright, helm, slow to one third, and prepare to surface."

_Montana_'s speed dropped precipitously as her depth decreased. She was down to fifteen knots by the time she breached the surface of the Pacific Ocean. "Deploy the satellite," Lisa ordered.

"_Commander, the transmission indicates it's for your eyes only,_" the radio room reported a moment later.

"Oh, joy," Lisa said sarcastically. That meant only one thing – an Intersect Project mission. "Lieutenant Milliken?"

The helmsman turned around. "You have the conn," she told him. "I'll be in the wardroom."

Lisa exited the hatch at the rear of the control room, went down a ladder, and then went back forward one compartment. The wardroom was located below and just forward of the control room.

Locking the door behind her, she activated the video communications screen. It came on – and the face of Sam Tyler, National Intelligence Director, looked back at her.

"_Commander Bartowski_," he said without preamble. "_We have a problem._"

"You never call unless we do, sir," she replied. "What is it this time?"

"_Fulcrum._"

Lisa's eyes widened, and her blood ran cold. Fulcrum had been dormant for over twenty-five years.

"You can't be serious, sir."

"_Completely, Commander Bartowski. USS _Enterprise_ is steaming your direction. You are to rendezvous with her and transfer over. There's an F-35 waiting to immediately fly you off of _Enterprise_ to Pearl Harbor, and there's a VC-24 waiting there to take you immediately to Los Angeles._"

Lisa nodded. "Understood, sir."

"_Commander Bartowski…_" Sam Tyler looked very old and very tired. "_I don't think I need to remind you how cautious you need to be._"

"Of course not, sir."

"_Not a word to anybody. Not your crew, not your commanding officer. If Captain Wilkinson has a problem with the orders, tell him to contact me._"

"Yes, sir," Lisa replied, and closed the communications link. She stood staring at the bulkhead for a moment, and took a deep breath. Spinning on her heel, she went back to the ladder, and ascended back to the control room.

"Helm, make your depth four hundred feet," she ordered. "Change heading to one hundred forty-one degrees, and go to flank speed."

"Commander?" Lieutenant Milliken asked, confused. "What's going on?"

Lisa set her mouth in a thin, grim line. "We're rendezvousing with USS _Enterprise_," she informed him. "I'm leaving the boat."


	3. The Bargaining Chip

**7:32 PM, CEST  
Tuesday, April 13****th****, 2038  
The American Embassy  
Madrid, Spain**

Alexandra Marie Bartowski often thought that she was going to literally die of boredom.

The twenty-five year old translator from the American Embassy had been assigned to a negotiation between Spain and Libya that was being moderated by the US State Department, but it turned out that the Libyan delegation – which they had been told spoke only Farsi and English – spoke Spanish just fine, thank you. That wouldn't have been such a bad thing if they had had something interesting to talk about, but they were talking about cattle. CATTLE.

Alex suppressed the urge to groan in dismay as they began to talk about what sort of grain was acceptable for cattle imported to Spain. This was the most godawful assignment she had drawn since joining the State Department.

Not that the State Department was exactly a joyous adventure. They had sworn up and down that she was going to thoroughly enjoy the job. She laughed mentally. Enjoy the job? She translated for jackasses and sleazebags, while her sister was the first officer of an attack sub and her brother was the manager of a hotel that catered to the beautiful people.

Oh well. At least she got to live in Madrid. That was certainly a bonus. She had also developed quite nicely, and knew how to take advantage of her body – something that had caused her "Uncle" John Casey quite a bit of consternation when she was a teenager.

Ah, the Caseys. Alex had, with Casey's daughter, Becca, been quite the hell-raising duo as teenagers. Separated in age by ten months, they had nonetheless ended up in the same year in school. When they reached high school, teachers at Harvard-Westlake would beg for them to not be in the same classes.

Alex had nearly had an aneurysm when her brother John had started dating Becca during her and Becca's sophomore year, but now that they were older, she had to admit that John and Becca worked very well together. Of course, the e-mail that Alex had gotten from Becca the night before indicating that Becca might be pregnant… well, that did not bode well for John's continued health and well-being.

Then she heard somebody say, "Let's take a fifteen minute break," and had to stop herself from saying, "Oh thank God." She was out the door practically before the people at the table had stood.

Once outside of the building, she reached into her purse and turned her cell phone on. State Department employees were not permitted to have cochlear cellular implants, because the potential for espionage was simply too great.

Almost immediately after her phone came on, it indicated that she had twelve voicemails and thirty-one missed calls – all of them from her father. That was immediate cause for consternation. Given her father's involvement with the Department of Defense and her mother's involvement with the CIA, one never knew exactly what the hell was going on with the Bartowski family.

She dialed into her voicemail and listened to the messages. The first eleven were some variation on "Where the hell are you" and "Goddammit, Alex, pick up the phone," but the twelfth one gave her chills.

"Alex, this is your father," the voice of Chuck Bartowski said. "I need you to listen to me very carefully. We have a Foxtrot situation in Los Angeles. Your brother is receiving a protective detail, and your sister is being pulled from her current patrol. I need you to get out of Madrid, right now. The CIA will smooth things over with the State Department, but you need to get back in-country as soon as possible. Don't go to the Chief of Station – pack only what you need, and leave on the next flight out. I'll see you when you get here. I love you."

Alex hung up the phone, her eyes wide. Slowly and deliberately, she placed the phone back into her purse. Striding to the sidewalk, she hailed a cab. One pulled over almost immediately. She got in the back seat.

"_¿A dónde, senorita?_"

"_Por favor, al J.W. Marriott._"

"They still have you living at a hotel?"

The voice in English caused Alex's head to snap up from her purse. "What a waste of American taxpayer money," the driver said, disgusted.

"What?" Alex asked. "Who are you?"

"I represent a group of individuals who think it's time for America to take a new direction," the driver replied. "The group was formed when I was four years old, but that doesn't stop me from agreeing with it."

Alex's blood ran cold. It couldn't be. No, there was no way.

But what had her father said? "A Foxtrot situation?"

She drew a deep breath. "You're with Fulcrum, aren't you?"

Alex saw the driver smile in the rear view mirror. "Damn, even the adopted Bartowski is a smart one," he laughed. "Oh yes, I'm with Fulcrum. You see, we've been after your father for thirty years, and YOU, my dear young lady, are the perfect bargaining chip."

She crossed her arms. "You'll never get away with this. The State Department knows how to find me – I have a tracking device –"

"The Secretary of State is one of us, young lady," the driver replied. "I can assure you that you will be safely hidden away from the prying eyes of the Central Intelligence Agency."

Alex was beginning to despair. She tried to open the door of the cab – no such luck. "Dream on," the driver said with an ugly laugh. "I wasn't born yesterday."

She punched the door, and collapsed back into her seat. "How did you know when I would be coming out?" she asked. "I wasn't even supposed to leave yet!"

"We didn't," the driver admitted. Alex didn't even recognize what part of Madrid they were in now. "I've just been watching you for the last several days, and I knew that you took a cab home every day. It was just a matter of sitting there today and waiting for the opportunity."

Alex fell silent. She didn't say anything for several minutes, as they drove further and further away from the center of Madrid. Finally, she had to ask. "What's going to happen to me?"

The driver lifted his head, and made eye contact with her in the rear view mirror. "Well, that's mostly up to your father, and to a lesser extent, your mother," he replied. "There's also my boss to consider – and you should know, my boss is somebody who knows your father quite well."

"Who's your boss?" Alex asked, point blank.

"Sorry," the driver replied. "I can't tell you that. And for the record, Miss Bartowski, I don't want to see any ill befall you… but I don't call the shots."

Alex was not exactly reassured.

* * *

**8:01 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time  
Bob Hope International Airport  
Burbank, California**

Chuck had a bit of a shiver as he drove onto the grounds of Bob Hope Airport. This was not exactly the site of the happiest of his memories.

He could still recall with clarity the day that an insane State Assemblyman had pursued him into the airport, driving a Metro Rapid bus. That was the day that a Fulcrum pilot in an F/A-18 Hornet had almost killed him, Sarah, Bryce, Carina, Casey. That was the day that Bryce had been shot, but it was also the day that Alex had come into their custody.

Twenty-five years ago. And now, Fulcrum had returned. There hadn't been any overt threats, any mentions yet even, but with John identifying a Fulcrum agent in downtown Los Angeles, there was no time to be cautious.

He was also extraordinarily anxious about Alex. It had been ten hours since he'd called her, and he still hadn't heard back from her. That did not give him a good feeling.

Chuck knew that his youngest was supposed to be involved with a negotiation between Spain and Libya for several days, and he hoped against all hope that that's what was keeping her from calling back. But the feeling in his gut was that something was wrong.

"_This is USAF Flight 422 on final,_" Chuck heard over the aviation band radio in his truck. The old Ford F250 was twenty-five years old, but damned if it wasn't still reliable.

Flight 422. That was Lisa's flight. "_Requesting permission to land_."

"_AF 422, this is Burbank Tower,_" the tower controller replied. "_You are cleared to land at your leisure._"

A moment later, he watched the French-built Dassault Falcon 7X, USAF designation VC-24 Cardinal, swoop overhead and touch down on the short runway. It quickly came to a halt and began to taxi to a hardstand.

Chuck picked up the microphone attached to his truck's dashboard. "Bob Hope Tower, this is Omaha 1," he said. "Requesting permission for vehicular incursion to airfield."

"_Omaha 1, permission is granted. You have approximately three minutes of clearance._"

"Roger that," Chuck replied, putting the truck in gear and pressing the accelerator to the floor. He reached the hardstand that the USAF jet had parked on with more than a minute to spare.

As Chuck pulled to a stop next to the mobile stairway that had been wheeled up to the jet, the door opened. An Air Force flight attendant stepped out, followed by his daughter. She looked exhausted, and was still dressed in her coveralls and a USS _Montana_ ballcap. A huge smile still spread across her face when she saw her father, though, and she practically ran down the stairs to greet him.

"Hi, Daddy!" she said, wrapping him in a bear hug. Father and daughter had not seen each other since _Montana_ had deployed on her current patrol, nearly eight months before. The irony there was that it was the intelligence that Chuck developed that so often sent _Montana_ on her death-defying missions.

"Hey, Lisa," he replied, an equally large smile on his face. Chuck couldn't help but be proud of his oldest child. She had done so much with her life in such a short amount of time – certainly far more than Chuck had himself accomplished by the time he was her age.

She drew back from him, and immediately grew a sober look on her face. "What's going on with Fulcrum?" she asked.

Chuck sighed. "Your brother flashed on an American Express card that was issued to an account held by Fulcrum," he replied. "Needless to say, the CIA isn't taking any chances. They're sealing the Intersect Project up as tight as they can, and I'm bringing the family in."

Lisa nodded and tossed her duffel bag into the bed of the Ford. "What about the _Montana_?"

"Captain Wilkinson is being ordered to take the boat to the Falklands," Chuck replied as he opened the shotgun door of the truck. Lisa got in, and Chuck continued as he walked around to the driver's side. "He is under orders to not discuss his destination with anybody but the crew or the Pentagon. The _Montana_ will be on radio silence unless contacted directly by the Chief of Naval Operations or the Chief of Staff of the Navy. They'll be hiding in a special shelter constructed by the British Navy."

Lisa looked concerned. "How many people know about this?"

"Your mother and me," Chuck replied, starting the truck and driving toward the airport exit. "Sam Tyler, the CNO, the Chief of Staff of the Navy, the director of the CIA, England's Minister of Defence, and of course Captain Wilkinson. Not even the President knows the particulars."

Lisa still didn't look happy. "There is way too much sensitive equipment and intelligence onboard the _Montana_, Dad," she insisted. "If she gets captured… the Intersect Project is screwed."

"That's why she's not going to get captured," Chuck replied as he turned out onto Hollywood Way. "You're the boat's first officer. You know as well as I do the procedures if _Montana_'s commander thinks she's about to be taken."

Lisa knew the procedures very well. It could only be done with a sixteen digit code that had to be retrieved from the captain's safe, and it involved the detonation of the nuclear warhead on one of the fourth-generation Tomahawk missiles in the forward part of the boat. The detonation of the five kiloton warhead would all but vaporize _Montana_ and ensure that none of her secrets were captured.

Of course, the very fact that _Montana_ had a nuclear warhead onboard was top secret. An international treaty signed twenty-six years before had banned sea-going nuclear weapons effective January 1st, 2025. If _Montana_ was captured and the weapon discovered, not only would the secrets of the Intersect fall into enemy hands, but the crew of the boat would be considered terrorists and thus not subject to the Geneva Conventions.

Lisa didn't even want to think about that.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of her father's cell implant ringing. "I hope to God this is Alex," he muttered. "Hello?"

"_Mr. Bartowski?_"

Chuck didn't recognize the voice. "_Yeah, that's me._"

"_I have a message for you, Mr. Bartowski. This message is from General Melvin Powers. It is from General Louisa Beckman. It is from Maximillian Calijo._"

Chuck's eyes went wide, and he stood on the brakes. The F250 swerved crazily in the middle of the street before coming to a halt. "WHO THE FUCK IS THIS?!"

"_I have no name, Mr. Bartowski, or at least, none that you need to know. But I'm quite certain you know exactly who I am._"

Chuck took a deep breath. "Fulcrum."

"_Indeed, Mr. Bartowski. Surely you didn't believe we'd disappear forever._"

"I kinda had my hopes," Chuck replied sarcastically. "Now what the hell do you want?"

"_No, Mr. Bartowski, I think the more accurate question is, what do YOU want?_"

Chuck's brow furrowed. "Exactly what does that mean?"

"_Tell me, Mr. Bartowski, how long has it been since you heard from your daughter, Alexandra?_"

Lisa couldn't hear what her father was hearing, but she could see that his hands had tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "It's been several hours."

"_Yes, Mr. Bartowski. Actually, we know that it's been at least ten hours. You see, that's how long we've had her in our custody._"

Chuck's eyes went wide. "I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU HURT SO MUCH AS ONE HAIR –"

"_Oh, do calm yourself, Mr. Bartowski,_" the Fulcrum agent replied, a trace of irritation in his voice. "_We're men, not savages._"

"The last time I dealt with you fuckers, there didn't seem to be much of a difference," Chuck growled. "What the hell do you want?"

"_What we've always wanted, Mr. Bartowski. The Intersect._"

Chuck nodded. "So you want me."

"_Or your son. Or your daughter. Any will suffice._"

"You're not getting my son or my daughter," Chuck spat.

"_Then we'll happily take you, Mr. Bartowski. But don't take too long to decide. The program director is a most impatient individual._"

And the call was disconnected. Chuck didn't say a word, just hit the gas.

"Dad," Lisa said. "Dad, calm down!"

"They have your sister, Lisa!" Chuck barked. "How the hell am I supposed to stay calm?"

"Dad, if you keep driving like this, you're going to get us both killed, and what good will that do Alex?" Lisa demanded, anger creeping into her voice.

Chuck slowed down. "You're right," he replied. He sighed. "I guess the best option is for me to just turn myself over to Fulcrum."

"Oh, the hell!" Lisa snapped. "You are NOT just giving up to a bunch of terrorists, Dad!"

Chuck pulled the truck over and looked his daughter in the eyes. "If I don't, your sister will die."

Lisa looked right back at him. "Dad, you and Mom stopped Fulcrum from taking down the President. I would think anything else would be a walk in the park after that."

Chuck looked at his daughter. It seemed so long ago. She had been fifteen months old when Fulcrum had tried to use their ECOMCON plot to take over the White House.

But she was right. He and Sarah had kept it from happening. They had taken on Fulcrum, and they had won. When Fulcrum had sought revenge a year later, they had beaten them.

Now, twenty five years later, Fulcrum was back. But that didn't mean they couldn't be beaten again.

Chuck nodded. "You're right," he told Lisa. "Let's get home to your mother. We've got some work to do."


	4. Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Fulcrum

**10:22 PM. Pacific Daylight Time  
Tuesday, April 13****th****, 2038  
4320 St. Clair Avenue  
Studio City, California**

The Bartowskis neighborhood in the Valley had been quiet for a very long time. There hadn't been a disturbance of this scale since the NSA tried to eliminate Chuck and Sarah, WAY back in February of 2012.

But now, it seemed as though all hell had broken loose on this normally quiet Studio City street. LAPD cruisers blocked the street at either end. The Secret Service had set up a perimeter around the edge of the Bartowskis' property. The CIA had set up a mobile command post in the street right in front of the Bartowski residence.

Making it look even more like the apocalypse was the haphazard parking job that Devin Woodcomb had done when he arrived at Chuck and Sarah's house. He had shown up in his seventy-one year old Ford Mustang, and frustrated at the lack of parking on the street, had roared up into the Bartowskis' front yard and left the antique pony car sitting there.

Ordinarily, John Casey would've blown a gasket at his meticulous yard work being so callously destroyed, but he had other things on his mind just at that moment. Just like every other person sitting in the living room of the Bartowskis' home, he was mentally making some sort of plan to find and free Alexandra Bartowski.

Chuck and Sarah appeared to be polar opposites in their mood. Chuck was sweating, jumpy, rocketing to his feet every time a phone rang or somebody knocked at the door. Sarah, on the other hand, appeared to be calm, cool, collected, holding Chuck's hand, trying to soothe his nerves. To the trained observer, though – in other words, to Casey – there was a battle raging behind her eyes, and it was clear that it was taking all her self-control to keep herself together.

CIA officers had set up three computer terminals in the Bartowskis' living room, being VERY grateful that Chuck, nerd that he was, had the most state-of-the-art wireless network he could possibly have set up in the house. Devin Woodcomb was on the phone with medical colleagues across Europe, telling them to be on the lookout for Alex, and giving them all descriptions.

Ellie was in the kitchen, reverting to a role she relished in these situations – that of gracious host, with Becca Casey helping her with whatever she needed. The coffee kept coming, whatever was needed was provided. Nobody was left lacking.

As the storm raged around the Bartowski family, however, John and Lisa slipped off to their old nursery. They sat there on the floor, and began to make their own plan.

"First thing we need to do," Lisa started, "is figure out how to get our hands on a Fulcrum officer."

"Simple enough," John replied. "We go down to the Standard. I have access to the personal records of every single guest we've ever had at the hotel. Zolis Farthing, checked out this morning, is a Fulcrum agent."

Lisa nodded. "How do we get out of the house, though?"

John shrugged. "I guess we'll figure that out when we get there."

Lisa smiled and shook her head. "Great," she said. "Alright. So once we have Farthing, we question him. What makes us think he's gonna know anything about Alex?"

"Who cares if he does or not," John replied. "What we need from him is information about other Fulcrum agents. We get that, we can move up the food chain. The closer to the top we can get, the more likely we're going to be able to find out where Alex is."

"Good call," Lisa allowed. "But here's the thing – and don't take this the wrong way, John, but I'm in the Navy, and you're a hotel manager. I'm trained in combat, and you're trained in… well, being friendly."

John frowned. "What, you think Mom hasn't trained me in everything she possibly can?"

Lisa's jaw dropped, and her face reddened. She couldn't believe she hadn't thought of that. Of course their mother would've trained John. Sarah Walker Bartowski had once been considered the best deep cover operative in the Central Intelligence Agency. Hell, her nickname had been "The Operative". So of course she would've made sure that her son, a part of the DoD's Intersect Project, could fend for himself no matter the situation.

"Right," Lisa breathed. "Duh. I should've thought of that."

John smiled at his sister. "You can't win 'em all, Lise."

She frowned. "I thought I told you never to call me that when we were like twelve."

He shrugged. "And I do what you say how often?"

Lisa rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Okay, anyway. So how do we get out of the house?"

John smiled again. "Uncle Awesome's Mustang," he replied.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," Lisa said, a note of concern in her voice. "He'll flip out if we steal his Eleanor."

"We'll bring it back," John argued. "Besides. He left the keys on the kitchen counter. Easy to get to. He parked it in the front yard. Easy to get out of here. And best of all, since it was restored to 1967 Shelby specifications, almost everything is mechanical. Neither the cops nor the Secret Service would be able to shut us down with an EMP."

Lisa nodded. "Alright. Guns. I've got my service Colt 1911 – what about you?"

"Gun safe in Dad's office," John replied. "Combo is Mom's birthday – 6, 14, 82."

"How the hell do you know that?" Lisa demanded.

"Dad's too sentimental," John said. "I figured it out when we were something like fourteen, and I doubt if he's changed it since I last opened it two years ago."

Lisa shook her head. "It's no wonder you always got in trouble when we were kids," she sighed. "You're still trouble at 27."

John smiled. "Damn skippy."

He stood and walked out of the nursery. Lisa opened her purse and fished out her wallet and her gun. The wallet went in her left hip pocket, the gun in the waistband of her jeans by the small of her back. She grabbed her _Montana_ ballcap and jammed it onto her head.

John headed for the Nerd Cave. He slipped inside, and pulled his keys out of his pocket. He didn't want to turn on the lights and attract the attention of the Secret Service officers outside, so he illuminated the Standard Hotel keychain that his keys were attached to.

Sliding open the closet door, he shined the light on the gun safe. Reaching up, he twisted the dial right, then left, then right. He heard the tumblers fall into place, and he pulled the door open.

There were always at least two guns kept in there, but John wanted small and simple. Reaching in, he grabbed Chuck's old Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. He checked to see if it was loaded, and after making sure it was, pushed it into the waistband at the back of his jeans. He swung the door of the safe shut again, making sure it locked, and slid the closet door shut.

Lisa stepped into the Nerd Cave then, and shut the door behind her. "Cell implants off," she whispered to her brother, and he nodded.

They both slipped out the back door, into the laundry room. If they turned left, they would be in the garage; right would take them into the kitchen. The keys to Devin's Mustang were in the kitchen, so they went through that door.

Ellie and Becca were both surprised to see them come through. Becca smiled at seeing John, and walked over to him. She kissed him and said, "We need to talk."

"I know," he replied. "But now… really isn't the best time."

Ellie smiled and looked at the ceiling. Becca had already filled her in on what was going on, and Ellie, ever the doctor, had to wonder if her nephew had ever heard of a condom.

Lisa took advantage of the two women being distracted to palm the keys to the Mustang. "John and I are going to step outside to get some air and talk," she told them. "We'll be back in a moment."

They exited the kitchen through the side door. "Evening, Mr. Bartowski, Commander," a Secret Service agent greeted them as they stepped outside.

John nodded at the agent, and then turned to Lisa. "You ready?" he asked.

She nodded. "Let's go."

John and Lisa rounded the corner of the house, and strode with purpose toward the Mustang. "Mr. Bartowski?" an agent called. "What are you doing, sir?"

John ignored the agent, pressing the button on the Mustang's remote to unlock the doors. "Mr. Bartowski!"

John and Lisa pulled the doors open and got into the seven decade old sports car. Two Secret Service agents came running up to the front end of the car, guns drawn. "Mr. Bartowski, step out of the vehicle!" one of them yelled, as they aimed their guns at the twins.

John cocked his head to one side, and then rolled down the window. "Would you REALLY shoot one of the principles of the Intersect project?" he asked sarcastically.

That gave the agent pause – which was just long enough. John twisted the Mustang's key in the ignition, turning the 351 cubic inch Ford engine over. And seventy-one years old or not, the big Windsor-built engine roared immediately to life, sending a rumble across the front yard.

The contingent in the living room had heard the ruckus outside, and now the front door opened. Sarah Bartowski stuck her head out and saw her two oldest children in Devin Woodcomb's Mustang, most likely about to go do something stupid. "JOHN! LISA!" she shouted. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!"

"Don't worry, Mom!" John yelled back. "We'll be right back!"

And with that, he popped the Mustang into reverse and floored the gas, flying out into the street. Pulling the front end of the car around through a 180-degree turn, he pointed it north and threw it into first gear, leaving streaks of rubber on the street as he went. In the rear view mirror, he could see agents scrambling to get into two Secret Service cars.

The LAPD officers at the end of the street had been alerted to the escape in process, and were now moving their cruisers in an attempt to completely block St. Clair Avenue. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," John muttered, as he drove the Mustang up onto the sidewalk, easily bypassing the officers and sliding out onto Moorpark Street.

The cops were falling back by the time John reached Vineland – not even Ford's most recent update to the Crown Victoria model was able to keep up with one of the most celebrated sports cars to ever hit the road. He turned right onto Vineland, and by the time the LAPD reached the street, he was already on the ramp onto the 101 southbound.

John spent the next ten minutes weaving in and out of cars as he flew down the Hollywood Freeway. He checked the rear view mirror periodically, but it appeared that both the LAPD and the Secret Service had long since fallen off of his tail.

Fifteen minutes after they pulled the Mustang out of the front yard of their parents' house, John and Lisa were at the Standard Hotel. John parked the Mustang in his personal parking spot, and then headed inside, Lisa right behind him.

His sudden arrival in the lobby startled the night audit clerk. "Mr. Bartowski!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "I wasn't expecting you here tonight, sir!"

"And I'm not here," John informed him. "If anybody asks, I was not here tonight. Is that clear?"

"Yes… yes, sir!" the clerk replied, sounding nervous.

John smiled. "Expect another dollar per hour your next paycheck," he told the clerk, opening his office door. The clerk didn't have time to reply as John ushered his sister in, and shut the door behind them.

"Alright," John mused, logging into his computer terminal. In a flash, the property management system was open. "Zolis Farthing," he mused, typing in the man's name.

A flurry of information came out of the software, but nothing that looked like a residential address. "Dammit," John muttered. "Lisa, you recognize this address?"

No answer. "Lisa?"

She gasped, and then her head snapped downward. "Flash?" John asked, recognizing the symptoms.

Lisa nodded. "That's a business address," she replied. "Over in Century City. He has an office there, but he apparently also has a condo that attaches onto his office. It's supposedly a Fulcrum safe house, so…"

John grinned. "What are we waiting for?"

* * *

**8:05 AM, CEST  
Somewhere in Spain**

Alex Bartowski had been blindfolded for the last six hours, and she was less than amused. This was the biggest crock of bullshit she had ever experienced. Fulcrum was dead, they were nothing. Why the hell was some bunch of posers thinking that they could revive the name and make her family's life hell all over again?

She was sure the embassy psychiatrist would've been quite intrigued to discover that Alex was angry instead of afraid. But Alex had spent her life dealing with oppression of one sort or another. Being Latina by heritage had always made her life a little weird – the neighborhood that she grew up in, the fact that she had a Polish last name, it all added up to people not being sure what to make of her.

Alex had let it slide off her back, but inside, she seethed against it. Who cared if she was different – she was who she was, goddammit!

And now that same anger was bubbling to the surface. How DARE these bastards try to do this to her family?

"Miss Bartowski, you have a visitor," a voice announced. She recognized the voice as that of the cab driver who had abducted her the day before.

"Eat shit," she spat at the cab driver.

"Thanks, I'll pass," he replied, a note of humor in his voice. "And the visitor is our program director, so you really don't have a choice as to whether or not to receive him."

Alex sighed. She supposed that kind of gave an indicator of what a Mickey Mouse operation this Fulcrum Part Deux really was – she'd been in their custody for just over twelve hours, and already they were sending in the big cheese to speak with her.

But when she heard his voice, her blood froze. "Hello, Alex," he said. His voice was quiet, but familiar. She KNEW that voice. She couldn't place it, but she KNEW it. She had heard it hundreds, no, thousands of times before.

"Who… who is that?" she asked, her voice not nearly as sure as it had been a moment before.

"Aw, Alex, you don't recognize my voice?" the man asked. She felt him touch her face, draw his fingertips across her cheek. The contact made her shudder in horror, in fear. NOW she was afraid.

She heard him sigh. "After all these years," he said. "All we've done together. I would think that you'd at least remember my voice."

Alex summoned up a bit of the courage she'd had a moment before. "Forgive me," she deadpanned. "Being abducted doesn't do great things for my memory."

"Well, I'm sure you'll remember me if you see me," he replied. "You might not be a Bartowski by blood, but you're still a Bartowski, and I'm SURE you'd never forget a face."

_That_ was probably true. Despite not having the subliminal image retention capabilities that her father and her siblings had, Alex was still smart as a whip, with a photographic memory to boot.

The blindfold was jerked off of her face. Alex squinted at the sunlight shining directly on her from a window across the room. The man was only a silhouette, but he looked familiar…

He stepped into the light, his face clearly illuminated. Alex's heart plummeted as she immediately recognized him.

"Oh my God," she whispered. Her voice grew small. When she spoke again, it was with the voice of a very scared little girl.

"Uncle Bryce?"

Bryce Larkin grinned, but it was a nasty, feral grin. "Hello, Alex."


	5. Meadowlark Holdings

**11:17 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time  
Tuesday, April 13****th****, 2038  
Studio City, California**

"Call: John Bartowski."

One ring. Then a click. "_I'm sorry. The Verizon Global customer you are trying to reach is not currently available._"

Chuck sighed in frustration. "End call. Call: Lisa Bartowski."

It didn't even ring this time – just went directly to the recorded message. "_I'm sorry. The Verizon Global customer you are trying –_"

"Fuck you," Chuck muttered.

"_I'm sorry, I didn't underst-_"

"END CALL!"

The cell implant in Chuck's right ear went silent. He growled wordlessly and kicked a leg of the coffee table next to him. Wolf, annoyed at being disturbed, stuck his head out from under the table and yipped angrily and Chuck.

"Shut up," Chuck grumbled at the Yorkie.

"Hey!" Sarah snapped. Chuck's head whipped upwards, to see Sarah staring at him, anger written on her face. "Just because you're pissed off doesn't mean you get to take it out on the dog!"

Chuck looked at his wife in disbelief. "All I did was tell him to shut up!"

Sarah didn't say anything – she just continued to stare at Chuck. "Oh, alright," Chuck finally relented, rolling his eyes. He looked back down at the Yorkie. "I'm sorry, Wolf."

Wolf yipped in reply.

"Any luck gettin' your offspring on the phone?" came the voice of Devin Woodcomb as he entered the room. "And why's the dog barking?"

"No, and don't start," Chuck grumbled in reply. "The dog is fine."

"Kids turn their cell implants off?"

"That would be my guess," Chuck replied with a nod. "They turn them off, we can't get in touch with 'em."

"Unless they're in Eleanor," Devin corrected him.

Chuck narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Devin shrugged. "Back in like 2010, 2011, somewhere around there, I had a cell phone wired into the stereo system. I haven't used it in probably five, six years, but the bill still gets paid every month, so as long as the phone still works, you can call the kids up, give them a piece of your mind."

"REALLY," Chuck said, suddenly interested. "What's the number?"

"That… is an EXCELLENT question," his brother-in-law replied. "Give me a moment to see if I can find it."

Devin reached into his pocket to dig out his phone. As a doctor, he couldn't have a cell implant – there were concerns among the medical community that they could interfere with medical equipment. But that made it a little easier for Devin to find the number, as well – visually interfacing with a cell implant required a pair of Bluetooth sunglasses, which always looked ridiculous indoors.

He scrolled through the phone's address book quickly. "Here we go," he muttered. "Uh, 424-555-5200."

"Got it," Chuck replied. "Call: 424-555-5200."

One ring sounded. Two rings.

* * *

**11:24 PM  
Wilshire Blvd., between Fairfax and San Vicente**

"Okay, so what do we do with this guy when we find him?" Lisa asked her brother.

"Simple," John replied. "Tie him up, probably to the bed in this safe house, interrogate him. Torture him if necessary."

Lisa squirmed a little. "Torture him?"

"Lisa, he's got Alex," John said. "Yes, torture him. Why?"

Lisa sighed. "I guess… it's just that, you know, I've got the Geneva Conventions banged into my head from spending the last ten years in the Navy. You… well, you were trained by the CIA."

John shook his head. "Yes, yes I was. And if you're not comfortable torturing Farthing, I'll do it for both of us."

Lisa looked at the ceiling of the car. "No, I'm sure it'll be okay… it's just, you know –"

And that's when something rang. Definitely a phone. And definitely older, because it wasn't the trilling of a cell implant. "Did you turn your implant off?" Lisa asked, her face a mask of confusion as she turned to her brother.

"Of course," he replied. "You?"

"Before we left the house."

John looked out the windshield, confused, as it continued to ring. "Well, it's gotta be something, somewhere," he mused. "Hello?"

"_Hello?!_"

"What the hell?" John muttered. "Dad?!"

"_Ah, good, so the phone does work._"

"What phone?!"

"_That'd be the phone that your uncle installed in the Mustang almost thirty years ago_," Chuck Bartowski's disembodied voice replied, floating out through the car's speakers. "_Now what the hell were the two of you thinking?!_"

John and Lisa looked at each other, and both shook their heads. "Dad, John had a Fulcrum agent at the Standard this morning," Lisa replied, exasperation evident in her voice.

"_I am well aware of that, young lady,_" Chuck replied. He had a tone in his voice that neither of the twins had heard since high school. "_Why do you think you got plucked out of the middle of the Pacific Ocean and brought back to Los Angeles?_"

"Well, Dad, we figured, if we could get our hands on him –"

"_You could what?!_" Chuck snapped, cutting of his son. "_Interrogate him? Then what?_"

John shrugged. "Figure out where Alex is, Dad."

"_Son, the better part of the bulk of the Central Intelligence Agency is working on that. What exactly do you think they can do that they can't?_"

"Last time I checked, there were three people in the world with Intersects in their heads, and all three of them are on this phone call," John shot back. "Lisa and I can actually take what the Fulcrum agent gives us and possibly move forward!"

"_Like hell,_" Chuck replied, a note of finality in his voice. "_The two of you are NOT going to go after a Fulcrum agent. You are NOT going to interrogate him. You are NOT going to put your lives in danger!_"

The twins were silent for a moment, the only sound in the car the noise of the Mustang's engine as they continued west on Wilshire. Finally, Lisa spoke.

"Or what, Dad?" she asked, her voice quiet. "You'll spank us and send us to our rooms?"

"_Young lady –_"

"No, Dad," Lisa said. "We're going. We're getting our sister back. End call."

* * *

**Studio City**

Chuck growled in wordless frustration. For the first time in years, he found himself wishing he actually had a cell phone handset, if for no other reason than to be able to heave it across the living room.

He braced himself to kick the coffee table again, but then looked down and saw Wolf glaring at him balefully from beneath it. Not wanting to bear Sarah's wrath again, he clenched his jaw and swallowed the frustration.

"Goddamn stubborn ass kids," he grumbled as he stalked past Devin, heading toward the kitchen.

"And where do you think they get it from, Chuck?" his brother-in-law asked, following him.

"Devin, don't start with me," Chuck said tiredly.

Devin put a hand on Chuck's shoulder and physically turned him around. "Seriously, Chuck. The kids look like you and Sarah, so obviously they're going to be stubborn and irritating like the two of you."

Chuck cocked his head and looked at Devin curiously. "Sarah and I are irritating?"

Devin smiled. "Only sometimes. Other times… well, you're infuriating."

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "At least I'm not a sixty year-old who says 'awesome' all the time."

"Hey, hey now," Devin protested. "As long as people call me 'Awesome', I'm gonna say it."

Chuck rolled his eyes and turned back toward the kitchen. "Superb."

* * *

**Century City**

Avenue of the Stars was empty, almost eerily so. Neither of the twins could ever remember seeing this area like this before.

Then again, neither could ever remember having been down there at nearly midnight on a Tuesday. That might have played a much larger role, but they were both a little bit on edge.

The glow of the Bloomingdale's sign softly shone across Century City Plaza, reflecting in the rearview mirror of the Mustang almost like a ghost. John slowly brought the antique sports car to a stop in the driveway of a skyscraper across the street.

Lisa looked up and out the window. "You remember when that used to say 'Westfield' up there?" she asked.

John turned and gave his sister a strange look. "You pick the strangest things…"

"I'm just sayin'," she replied. "It looked nicer than the gigantic AT&T logo."

John shook his head, and turned to look at the security panel. He didn't have a card to get in, but –

Just as he hoped, a series of images briefly flashed in his mind's eye, and a moment later, he knew exactly how to disable the panel. Reaching a hand out the window of the car, he rapidly punched in a series of letters and digits, and a few seconds later, the armored gate rolled upwards, allowing the Mustang into the garage.

John pulled the Mustang into a parking spot designated for visitors, and shut the car off. Getting out, he made sure his father's gun was still in the waistband of his jeans. He saw Lisa doing the same thing as she got out of the car.

John hit the remote to lock the Mustang as the twins walked away from the car. They quickly crossed the garage to the glass doors leading into the building lobby.

The doors were locked when they reached them; however, Lisa did exactly what John had a moment earlier – she looked at the security pad by the door, her eyes glazed over for a fraction of a second, and then she knew how to disable the pad.

Thirty seconds later, they were inside an elevator, with John repeating the procedure YET AGAIN. "This is getting tedious," he grumbled, shaking off the phantom of a headache that was starting to form behind his eyes.

Finally, the elevator doors slid shut, and the car began to rise to the sixteenth floor. "I hate elevator music," he muttered under his breath.

"Especially _Girl from Ipanema_," Lisa agreed, although she sounded more amused than irritated. The elevator gently slid to a halt, and there was a _ding!_ as the doors slid open.

"Well, this should be difficult," John mused, looking at the sign on the wall that said "Farthing & Associates", with an arrow pointing to the right. He and Lisa turned right and headed down the hall.

John began to groan when he saw yet another security pad by the door to the office, but stifled it when he realized that the door was actually cracked open. The sound of a vacuum cleaner came from inside. "Thank God for the cleaning lady," Lisa said with a smile.

They entered the office, completely unnoticed by the cleaning lady, who had an interactive iFlow on her head. The invention, released by Apple five years before, allowed you to listen to music, watch a video, surf the Web, do whatever you needed to do, all within the privacy of a seemingly ordinary pair of glasses.

Chuck Bartowski had bought one for himself and for each of his three kids the first day they were available. Sarah, on the other hand, had eschewed the device, deriding it as "yet another brain-drainer."

However, right at the moment, that brain-drain was the best thing that the twins could have hoped for, as they slipped across the wall of the office to the door to Farthing's personal suite. There was no security pad, and John didn't bother with courtesy – he just kicked the door open.

Zolis Farthing lay on the king size bed inside, wearing only a pair of boxers, with two young, attractive women wearing even less, one on either side of him. He didn't appear at all surprised to see John and Lisa.

"Ah, Mr. Bartowski," he mused. "I was wondering when you might drop in."

"Well, I would've hated to disappoint," John said drily.

Farthing looked at the two women. "We'll have to continue this later, girls," he told them. "I've got business to conduct."

He rose from the bed, retrieving a bathrobe from the back of a chair. Wrapping it around himself, he exited into his office, the Bartowski twins right behind him. As soon as the door to the suite was shut, they both drew their guns and aimed them at the back of his head.

Hearing the twin clicks, he turned around, his eyes wide, his face pale. "Okay," he said, his hands coming up in the air, "maybe you're a little more serious than I thought."

That was when the cleaning lady turned around – except it wasn't a cleaning lady, it was clearly a security guard pulling double-duty as the cleaning person. He was a nasty looking fellow, and a small cannon was coming up to bear on John Bartowski's head –

But it never even got close, as the Navy-issue Colt 1911 in Lisa hand's shifted to the right and put two bullets into the guard's head before he could even draw a bead. The guard dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

John's eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. It was always easy for him to forget that his sister had killed many, many people – albeit by torpedo – whereas he had never so much as fired a gun in anger. "Jesus, Lise," he muttered.

She sighed. "Don't goddamn call me that," she hissed at him. "You!"

Farthing's head snapped to look her in the eyes. "Sit!" she ordered him.

Farthing complied immediately, sitting in an easy chair directly behind him. "John, go see what you can find in the computer system," Lisa ordered. "And you, Mr. Farthing, we're going to have a little talk."

John headed over toward the computer on Farthing's desk, as Lisa circled Zolis Farthing like a hungry vulture. "Alright, Mr. Farthing, who do you work for?"

"AT&T," he responded, without missing a beat.

That answer threw Lisa for a loop. _The hell?_ she thought in confusion. But she didn't hesitate. "Wrong answer," she snarled, socking Farthing in the face. "Where's my sister?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Farthing cried, holding a hand to his nose to stanch the blood that was now flowing freely. "I just expected your brother to come see me after he flashed on my American Express!"

"So you know about the Intersect Project," Lisa hissed.

"Yes, I know about the Intersect Project," Farthing replied. "It's one of the worst kept secrets in the intelligence community!"

Lisa shook her head. "This is bullshit," she muttered.

"Uh, Lisa?"

She looked up and turned toward her brother. "I think he might've been telling the truth about AT&T."

She cocked her head to the side. "What the hell are you talking about?"

John shrugged. "From what I can tell, through shell corporations, Fulcrum appears to be the majority stockholder in AT&T."

Lisa laughed in disbelief. "Well, doesn't this just get better and better."

John's eyes were wide. "Oh, it gets better still," he replied, his voice hushed.

"What are you talking about?"

John was silent for a moment. "John?"

"The largest of the shell corporations," he replied quietly. "Meadowlark Holdings. They're a brokerage firm."

"So what?" Lisa asked.

Her brother looked up from the computer, a look of dread on his face. "The CEO of Meadowlark Holdings is Bryce Larkin."


	6. Ezekiel 25,17

_**10:35 AM, Pacific Daylight Time  
Tuesday, July 24**__**th**__**, 2012  
Studio City, California**_

_Bryce Larkin lay on the floor of Studio City Consulting Services. His ribcage felt like it was on fire. He coughed, and a spray of blood burst from his lips._

_He looked up and around himself. They all stood, just watching, nobody offering help. Even Rachel couldn't muster anything more than a look of horrified pity._

_But the worst of all was Chuck Bartowski. He stood over Bryce, looking like death personified. It made Bryce afraid, but worse than that, it made him mad. Who the hell did Chuck think he was?!_

"_You know, Chuck," Bryce coughed, struggling to his feet, "I was trained by the CIA. I know a very large number of ways to kill you."_

_Chuck looked at Bryce, his eyes dead. "Save it," he said, his hand reaching down to unsnap the holster his gun was in. Bryce's eyes widened as the Smith & Wesson revolver cleared the holster, the barrel coming up to level with Bryce's forehead._

_Bryce actually felt fear. He hadn't felt like this since he blew up the original Intersect, nearly five years beforehand. His hands slowly rose into the air. "Uh, Chuck, what exactly do you plan to do with that?" he asked, a nervous laugh slipping into his voice._

_Chuck's thumb slowly moved downward, cocking the hammer on the revolver. "Sarah is my wife, Bryce," he replied. "She moved on from you many years ago, and it's time for you to do the same."_

_Bryce closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable. But what he heard instead was the sound of a hammer being released. He opened his eyes, and watched as the gun slowly dropped to Chuck's side._

"_You've been my friend for too long for me to do something really stupid," Chuck told Bryce as he slowly breathed a sigh of relief. "But you will never, ever touch Sarah again."_

_Bryce nodded, as Chuck continued. "You are suspended for ten days, without pay," Chuck said. "You are not to enter the SCCS building during that time. You are free to contact any SCCS staff, including Sarah. However, if you contact her, it is to be on a professional basis only."_

"_Thank you, Chuck," Bryce said quietly._

_Chuck nodded. "You're welcome, Bryce. But let me make something clear – if you ever, EVER even think about going anywhere near Sarah again, you will be terminated."_

_He replaced the gun in its holster and snapped it shut. "And I don't mean you'll be fired."_

* * *

**12:04 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time  
Wednesday, April 14****th****, 2038  
Studio City, California**

Nothing was happening.

The phones were silent. The voices were hushed. It was as if progress and activity had come to a standstill.

And it was driving Chuck Bartowski up the wall. He couldn't stand the lack of activity. He couldn't stand the fact that there was nothing going on.

Sarah could tell that he was feeling crazy, but she knew better than to interfere with Chuck. When he was pacing a worn spot in the carpet, it was best to just let him be.

When the phone rang, everybody jumped. Not because it was a phone ringing, but because it was the landline – the landline which rang approximately once in a blue moon.

Chuck stared at the old handset as if it were from another planet. Gingerly, he picked it up and held it to his ear. "Hello?"

"_Dad! It's John!_"

Chuck breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, something. "You actually remembered this number?"

His son was silent for a moment. "_Photographic memory, Dad,_" he finally replied. "_Remember?_"

"Of course," Chuck replied. "How could I forget?"

"_Yeah. Anyway, we didn't get too much out of Farthing, but Dad…_"

Chuck's son hesitated. "I don't like the sound of silence, John," Chuck said warily. "What's going on?"

"_We've got a couple of problems, Dad. First is this address we found. We don't know what it's for, and Farthing won't tell us, so it must be important._"

"Hit me," Chuck replied. There was always a possibility, however slim, that there might be something in his head that wasn't in either of the kids' heads.

"_Alright. The address is 31642 Castaic Road, Castaic, California._"

Chuck heard the address – and without warning, his vision went blank. Then, he was assaulted with an array of images.

A Pilot truck stop. A document stamped top secret. A series of rooms hidden beneath the ground. A root beer float. And the word FULCRUM in red.

He gasped, and tried to shake off the headache that assaulted him without warning. Sarah looked up in alarm, recognizing the signs of her husband having a flash. She started to stand up from the couch, but Chuck raised a hand to stop her.

"Alright, John," Chuck said through gritted teeth, "that address is for a Pilot truck stop in Castaic. There's a Fulcrum… well, office, I guess, hidden below ground there. And I mean WAY below ground, like below the fuel storage tanks."

Chuck took a deep breath. "Now, uh, what was the other problem?"

He heard his son sigh. "_You're not gonna like this, Dad._"

Chuck refrained from laughing. "I rarely like anything that has anything to do with Fulcrum, John. Now… out with it."

"_Okay. So, Fulcrum owns a majority of stock in AT&T, through a number of shell corporations. The largest of those shell corporations is a brokerage firm called Meadowlark Holdings. The CEO of Meadowlark Holdings…_"

Chuck felt his vision constrict. He KNEW. He somehow knew exactly what his son was going to say. His lungs seemed to empty of air, his ears began to pound.

"…_is Bryce Larkin._"

Chuck's grip on the phone handset tightened. His eyes closed, and his heart rate increased. "Son… of… a… BITCH!"

* * *

**12:11 A.M.  
Century City**

John gently replaced the handset in its cradle, his right ear ringing from his father's outburst. "Dad didn't take that so well," he dryly informed his sister.

"Well, surprise, surprise," she shot back.

"It's not like this is the first time Bryce has stabbed him in the back, though," John protested. "I mean, there was the college thing, and sending Dad the original Intersect… and I've heard stories from Uncle John of the number of times Bryce tried to put the moves on Mom…"

Lisa shook her head. "I guess it's just different," she replied. "It's been years since he pulled anything on Dad, and the fact that he actually aligned himself with this organization that cost them so much to put down… it's gotta hurt."

John nodded his head. "I guess that's true." He looked over at Zolis Farthing, tied to a chair, duct tape securely fastened over his mouth. "What about him?"

Lisa shrugged. "We lock him in the bedroom. Nobody will find him for about twenty four hours, but he should be fine."

John smiled. "And here I thought you were going to suggest putting a bullet in his head."

Twenty minutes later, the Mustang pulled out of the parking garage. Farthing's computer was in the back of the car, Farthing himself was tied up and locked in his bedroom, and the Bartowski twins were headed toward Castaic.

The forty minute drive passed in relative quiet. The 405 and the 5 were both fairly empty at this time of night – although the Mustang never failed to draw curious looks from other drivers on the road.

Most cars were of the plug-in hybrid variety, averaging anywhere between eighty and one hundred twenty-five miles per gallon of gas. The Mustang averaged sixteen, and so was considered somewhat of an oddity by everybody who saw it.

But the truth of the matter was, it could still drive very quickly, and outrun just about anything chasing it. The twins weren't particularly worried about somebody chasing them, but it couldn't hurt to hang onto their uncle's Mustang for a little while longer.

Just before 1:00 AM, they pulled into the parking lot of the Pilot travel plaza in Castaic. It was practically deserted, with just a few truckers and a couple of late night travelers in the parking lot.

The twins disembarked from the Mustang, and headed into the store. Lisa began to look around, but John headed straight toward the cashier.

"Alright, I want you to listen to me, and listen to me very carefully," John said quietly, pulling his gun from behind his back and setting it on the counter. The cashier, a boy of maybe eighteen, turned white, his eyes going wide.

"I'm not going to rob you," John assured him. "I'm a government agent. There's a series of rooms below this building, and there has to be a way to get down there. I don't know if you know where that is, but I think you can help me."

The boy gulped and nodded. "Yeah," he said, his voice small and scared. "If you go into the walk-in door by the beer cooler, and you go to the back, there's a panel there. You enter a security code, and it opens up an elevator. I'm not supposed to know it's there, but I saw it one day while I was stocking the cooler."

John nodded. "Good," he said. "Now, you're not going to tell anybody I was here, right?"

The boy nodded vigorously. John smiled, then turned toward Lisa. "Hey, Lise!"

She rolled her eyes and headed toward him. "I will shoot you the next time you call me that," she growled.

"Whatever," John replied. "I know how to get in."

* * *

**1:07 A.M.  
Studio City**

Chuck couldn't believe what his son had told him. He just couldn't. The thought that after all these years, Bryce would've turned around and done this – it just boggled his mind.

"You couldn't have known, Chuck," Sarah said quietly. She herself looked to be in shock, her face wet with tears. She had good reason to be shocked – all those years before, she thought that Bryce had betrayed her, only to find out he hadn't, and yet, now he had come around and committed treachery of an unthinkable degree.

Chuck shook his head. "I see him almost every day," he replied. "I've known him for nearly forty years. I just, I can't believe I didn't see this coming."

Sarah looked up at him, and was about to say something, when a look of confusion crossed her face. She looked around the room, and the look of confusion deepened. "Chuck?"

He looked down at his wife. "Yeah, babe?"

"Where's Casey?"

* * *

**1:10 A.M.  
Castaic**

The elevator was, in fact, in the back of the walk-in beer cooler. A quick look at the keypad and a brief flash later, John was able to disable it and open the elevator.

John and Lisa descended rapidly. They realized just how far down they were going when their ears started popping.

But when they stepped out of the elevator, they realized that they had hit the mother lode. The office, for lack of a better term, appeared to be unoccupied, but a bank of computers covered one wall of the room.

John was almost gleeful as he pulled the computer out of sleep mode – and then groaned. "Fucking Rampage," he growled, expressing his displeasure at working with Microsoft's most recent version of Windows.

With a sigh, he began to tap away at the keyboard. Windows or no, he was able to quickly access the files on the computer. Setting them up for rapid sequential display, he prepared himself to essentially download every secret Fulcrum had into the Intersect in his brain.

Lisa looked over at him, and quickly realized what he was doing. "John?" she asked. "Do you really think that that's a good idea?"

He shrugged. "Easier than going through each file one at a time, wouldn't you say?"

Lisa considered this. It was true, downloading everything would be much easier than going through each file one at a time, but it could also be dangerous – God only knew what Fulcrum could have sitting there in those files.

But if he was willing to take the risk… "Okay," she said. "But if you're doing it, I'm doing it too."

"Fair enough," John replied. The twins both turned to face the largest monitor, and John reached out to trigger the display…

It was nearly two o'clock by the time the display finished. It went dark, and the twins seemingly came back to consciousness – just in time to hear the distinct ratcheting noise of a shotgun behind them.

"Mr. Bartowski," a male voice said. "Commander. How nice of you to so effectively demonstrate the workings of the Intersect."

John and Lisa both raised their hands into the air. "What do you want?" Lisa asked quietly.

"Well, what do you think I want?" the man replied. "Fulcrum's been trying to get its hands on an Intersect for years, and now two of them have stumbled into our grasp. This will certainly help my cha-"

BOOM.

The sound of a large handgun going off echoed noisily in the subterranean chamber. There was a gasp and a gurgle behind the twins, and they spun around to see their captor slumping to the floor.

But it was the man who had saved them that made their eyes go wide.

"Kids today," Brigadier General John Casey complained, shaking his head in disgust as he lowered his gun. "You don't leave a guard, you don't have somebody keep watch, you just stand there and look at the screen like a couple of idiots while you let this amateur sneak up on you."

He looked John Bartowski in the eyes. "Although maybe I should've let him shoot YOU."

* * *

**11:02 A.M., CEST  
Cordoba, Andalusia, Spain**

Bryce Larkin was dozing. Lying on a chaise lounge on the deck behind the Fulcrum safe house, it was easy to drift off underneath the warm spring sun in the south of Spain.

He was nearly asleep when he heard the trilling of his cochlear implant. "Fuck," he grumbled, sitting up. "Hello?"

"_You are one dead mother fucker._"

Bryce sat straight up, his eyes widening. "Chuck?!"

"_No, it's the fucking Easter Bunny._"

"Chuck, what are you talking about?"

"_I'm talking about the fact that you are now part of a long line of people who I have had quite enough of,_" Chuck Bartowski growled from the other side of the world. "_You, along with Max Calijo, General Beckman, and the rest of the Fulcrum Eight._"

Bryce dropped the act. It was no use keeping it up with Chuck, now that he knew. "Yeah, Chuck?" he sneered. "And what do you plan to do about it?"

"_You remember what I told you, Bryce? What I told you twenty-six years ago, about how I would terminate you if I had to?_"

"That was if I ever touched Sarah again, Chuck," Bryce shot back, vividly remembering the day at Studio City Consulting Services. "And I've kept my hands off."

"_Yeah, well, I'm applying it to the rest of my family,_" Chuck replied.

"Well, Chuck, what exactly are you gonna do, then?" Bryce asked. "I mean, for God's sake, you don't even know where I am!"

Chuck was silent for a moment, but when he spoke again, it chilled Bryce to the bone. "_The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the LORD when I lay my vengeance upon thee._"

Bryce wasn't quite sure why, but coming from Chuck, the quote from _Pulp Fiction_ terrified him. "_As the president of Studio City Consulting Services, I'm placing a sanction on you_," Chuck informed him. "_Bryce Larkin… you're a dead man._"


	7. John Casey is a Big, Scary Man

**11:12 A.M., CEST  
Wednesday, April 14th, 2008  
Cordoba, Andalusia, Spain**

Bryce Larkin came blasting into the safe house like an oncoming storm. "ALRIGHT!" he shouted. "Pack it up! Everything's gotta go!"

The four Fulcrum agents in the living room looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. "MOVE YOUR ASSES!" he roared. "Bartowski's got a tab on us, we've gotta get the fuck out!"

Mark McLellan – the cab driver who had been responsible for abducting Alexandra Bartowski – spoke up. "The hostage?" he asked. "She goin' with us?"

Bryce cocked his head and looked at McLellan like he might a small child. "No, Mark, we're just going to leave her behind," he drawled sarcastically. "Yes, of course we're fucking taking her with us! Christ!"

"Where are we going?" one of the other agents asked Bryce.

"The group of you, and the hostage, are going to our safe house in Sydney," Bryce replied. "I'm going to the op site in Canberra."

McLellan looked at Bryce curiously. "I was under the impression that the op site wasn't online yet."

Bryce grinned. "Oh, Mark. The op site's been online for over a month. We've just been uploading all the data into it."

McLellan shook his head. "I don't understand how you got the data."

Bryce's grin got wider. "You see, my friend Chuck Bartowski is far too trusting. Every e-mail he's ever received with Intersect information – all the way back to the very first one – he's kept. Sure, it's been locked and encrypted… but I can get around that."

Bryce was practically laughing now. "Every piece of information in his head is in the Intersect in Canberra. It's operational, it's ready to go…"

He stopped himself, and smiled. He looked downright evil. "And the United States of America is screwed."

**

* * *

****3:20 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time  
Studio City, California**

Chuck Bartowski was just about to fall asleep in his recliner when there was a commotion at the front door. He didn't exactly fly to the window like a flash, nor did he tear open the shutters or throw up the sash, but then again, it wasn't Christmas.

What he did do was drowsily and grumpily stomp to the front door and yank it open, to be confronted by a very angry Secret Service agent lecturing the Bartowski twins and John Casey on what was and was not appropriate behavior in this sort of situation.

Chuck sighed. "Stow it, Agent Winfield," he grumbled. "You three, get your asses inside."

Agent Winfield turned away, still looking angry, but he didn't say anything further. Casey, John, and Lisa all followed Chuck into the house.

Chuck sat down wearily in his recliner, and indicated that the other three should take a seat on the couch. Sarah was in the kitchen with Becca, Devin and Ellie had long since gone home, and the CIA agents had relocated to the dining room.

Chuck looked at his two oldest children. "You two want to explain to me what the hell got into you?" he asked.

John sighed. "We discussed this on the phone, Dad. We can't just sit here while Alex is in Fulcrum custody."

Chuck nodded his head. "Yes you can, and yes you will. There are more government agents than you can imagine trying to get her back. The State Department is up in arms about this, and you can't just go rushing headlong into it."

"Uh, actually…" John Casey warily interrupted Chuck. "I think you need to hear the kids out."

Chuck fixed Casey with a look that said _Seriously?!_, but turned back to John.

"Here's the thing, Dad," John said. "Underneath that Pilot station up in Castaic, we found pretty much a treasure trove of information. I set up a computer to display all the files in rapid sequence, and Lisa and I basically absorbed the whole thing. We've got the Fulcrum Intersect now, if you will."

Chuck narrowed his eyes. "What did you find out?"

"Not much," Lisa admitted. "But we think enough. We just didn't know what would trigger the flashes, and it was the most random things. For instance, we know that Bryce reactivated Fulcrum about six months ago, but we don't know why. We also know that Fulcrum has a safe house in Cordoba, in Andalusia, Spain, and we know exactly where it is."

Chuck jumped to his feet. "Your sister was in Spain!" he practically shouted.

Lisa smiled. "I know," she replied. "That's why I called Uncle Morgan on the way over here and asked him to get us satellite imagery on the location."

Chuck's face practically split with a grin. "Forget everything I said about rushing in headlong," he said. "You can do whatever you want. Just come back alive."

And that's when his phone rang. "Hello?" he asked, activating the implant.

"_Chuck!_" the voice of Morgan Grimes said. "_I've got good news… and bad news._"

Chuck's shoulders slumped. He didn't want to hear any bad news. "Good news first," he said.

"_Okay, first of all, the safe house in Andalusia was, in fact, occupied… up until an hour ago_," Morgan replied. "_They bugged out pretty much right after you called them._"

"Goddammit," Chuck muttered. "So close!"

"_But,_" Morgan interrupted him, "_I've got footage of them, in high definition, driving to an airport, and taking off in a long range business jet about half an hour ago. There's no flight plan; however, the satellites picked up the jet in flight, and they've projected that its trajectory will take it to Sydney._"

"Sydney, Australia?" Chuck asked. As he did so, Lisa's eyes widened, and seemingly inspired, she crossed the living room to a computer sitting on the coffee table.

Chuck looked at his oldest, wondering what she was doing, but concentrated instead on what Morgan was saying. "_Right. Now, if all goes properly, they should be landing in about ten hours._"

Chuck sighed. "It'd take us longer than that to get to Sydney," he replied.

"_I know_," Morgan said, "_but if your kids have all of Fulcrum's secrets in their head, they should somehow be able to figure out where their bases in Sydney are!_"

Meanwhile, Lisa's brain was working overtime. When the _Montana_ had diverted to meet the _Enterprise_, it had headed toward the South China Sea. Captain Wilkinson had decided that instead of putting in at Taipei, they would just continue south and put in at Brisbane, instead, which meant…

"Call: Radio Room, USS _Montana_," Lisa instructed her cochlear implant.

The cellular implant began to activate a series of protocols and links that most cell phones would not be able to access. A moment later, she heard quick buzzes coming through the implant, as opposed to regular rings.

Then she heard the voice of CPO Remy Martinez, the chief radio operator. "_This is USS _Montana," the voice of the Latina woman sounded in Lisa's ear. "_Identify yourself immediately_."

"Remy, it's Lisa Bartowski," Lisa said, and she could almost hear the surprise on Martinez's face.

"_Commander?! What – how the hell?_"

"Never mind the what and how, Chief. I need to know where you are right now."

"_We're about two hours out of Brisbane, and beginning to slow._"

Lisa shook her head. "Alright. Who's got the conn right now?"

"_Lieutenant Milliken is actually in command right now, ma'am_," Martinez replied. "_Captain Wilkinson departed the boat about an hour ago to confer with flag staff on shore._"

Lisa furrowed her brow. That was weird. It was most certainly not anywhere within standard operating procedure for the captain to depart the boat while the first officer was absent, and leave the boat in the command of the dive officer.

"Alright," she said, choosing to worry about that later. "Patch me through to the control room. I need to speak with Rick."

There was a click, and a moment later, she could hear the handset being picked up in the control room. "_Control room, this is Lieutenant Milliken_," she heard Lieutenant Richard Milliken say.

"Rick, Lisa Bartowski. Don't ask how, just listen."

"_Ma'am._"

"I need you to divert to Sydney."

"_Ma'am?_"

"It's an Intersect Project op, Rick," Lisa replied. "I'm going to be flying in with a special ops team, extracting a hostage, and bringing the hostage onboard the _Montana_. We're going to have to make a rapid egress from the area."

"_Copy that, ma'am. Is Captain Wilkinson aware?_"

"That's a negative, Lieutenant. However, it is my understanding that he has relinquished command of the boat to you?"

"_Uh, well, technically, yes, ma'am._"

"Then get your ass in gear, Captain."

She could almost hear Milliken smile at the other end. "_Yes, ma'am!_"

"End call," Lisa said, cutting off the transmission. She looked up, to see her brother, her parents, and John Casey all staring at her. "What?"

"A special ops team?" Chuck asked. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Me, John, Mom, and Uncle John," she replied. "Mom and Uncle John have special forces training, I'm in the Navy, and John's been pretty well trained by Mom."

Her father looked perturbed. "What about me?"

"NO!" Sarah and Casey said, almost in unison.

Chuck rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling in exasperation. "Let me guess. Stay in the house, Chuck?"

"Damn skippy," Casey growled.

Sarah was a little more sympathetic. "Chuck, you just never had the training that all four of us have had, and I don't think your back could take it," she said, trying to calm him down. "Besides which, we're going to need somebody here, able to get us information, and nobody knows their way around a computer like you."

The ego stroking worked a little bit, but Chuck still wasn't entirely convinced. "So what you're saying is that I'm supposed to let my wife and my two oldest kids go gallivanting off on some half-cocked rescue mission to find my youngest daughter?"

Sarah looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. "Yeah, pretty much."

Chuck drew in a deep breath. "Well… all right."

Sarah smiled, and then hugged Chuck tightly. Pulling back, she kissed him gently. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Chuck leaned forward and whispered in his wife's ear. "No, but something else is."

Sarah's smile got even bigger, and she smacked her husband on the shoulder. "Not in front of the kids!"

John and Lisa looked at each other, and Casey groaned. "Do I even want to know?"

Chuck shook his head. "Probably not."

Sarah laughed. "Alright, you three, I need you to get prepped. I have to… um… say good-bye to Chuck."

"Jesus Christ," Casey growled as he headed toward the kitchen. "At least wait till I'm out of the room."

But Sarah and Chuck were already headed out of the room, tiredness forgotten. Lisa shook her head, and then headed toward the hallway, to get things ready. John turned toward his bedroom –

And found his path blocked by Becca Casey.

"We need to talk," she said. "And if you're going off to put yourself in danger, we need to talk right now."

John nodded and sat down on his father's easy chair. Becca managed to squeeze her way in next to him. He wrapped one arm around Becca's shoulders, and then put his other hand on her belly.

He looked up at her to find her smiling at him. "It's pretty amazing, huh?" she asked quietly. "You and me… that's another little Bartowski growing in there."

John couldn't help but smile. He hadn't really thought of it that way yet. "Yeah," he replied.

"But that's why we need to talk," Becca said, growing serious. "If you're going off on some idiotic mission that could get you killed… then I want you to do it as the 'mister' half of Mr. and Mrs. John Bartowski."

John's jaw dropped. Was she serious?!

The look on her face indicated that she very much was. And truth be told, this was a moment that John had been anticipating for quite some time.

And so, he slid out of the recliner, dropping to one knee, taking Becca's hands in his. The smile reappeared on her face, and tears began to fill her eyes.

"Becca," he said, "it's really too late for me to think of anything good to say, but here's the thing – we've known each other all of our lives, and I love you, and I want to make sure that you and I are with each other for the rest of our lives. Will you marry me?"

Her smile got bigger, and then she looked up, and her smile got a little bit mischievous. "Do you have my father's permission?"

John blanched at the thought of asking John Casey for his daughter's hand in marriage – and then his stomach dropped as he heard a voice behind him.

"No, he most certainly does not," boomed Brigadier General John Casey.

John shot to his feet and whirled around to face his namesake. The retired Air Force general looked like he could chew on nails… and yet, there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as well.

"So you knocked my daughter up," Casey growled. "And now you're trying to ask her to marry you without getting my permission?"

John's eyes had gone wide, and he didn't notice that his sister and his parents had gathered in the doorway to the hall, and all were desperately trying to suppress laughter. "That takes some nerve… BARTOWSKI," Casey continued.

Then Casey raised his chin and crossed his arms. "But I suppose, your father and Walker turned out alright together, so… let me ask you this. Do you plan to take care of my daughter, no matter what?"

"A-absolutely!" John stammered, trying to back away slowly.

"And will you love her, and be faithful to her?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good, because if you're not, I'm comin' after you with a Ka-Bar," Casey snapped. "But yeah, what the hell. Marry her."

John's jaw dropped. He hadn't expected it to be that easy. Then he felt a tug on his right hand.

He turned around, to see Becca standing and smiling at him. "Yes," she said softly, before leaning in to kiss him.

That's when Lisa, Chuck, and Sarah made their presence known by crossing the room to congratulate the two. But for just that moment, none of them existed but Becca, as far as John was concerned.

Finally, she drew back from him. "But we'll figure things out when you come back," Becca said. "Right now… you need to go find your sister."


	8. Sydney Showdown

**4:15 AM, Pacific Daylight Time  
Wednesday, April 14****th****, 2038  
946 Hartzell St., Pacific Palisades  
Los Angeles, California**

_BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM_.

Arthur J. Graham, former superior court judge, former director of the Central Intelligence Agency, former United States Senator from North Carolina, and current Los Angeles County Justice of the Peace, was snapped harshly into wakefulness by the sound of somebody beating on his front door.

"What the hell?" he grumbled. He winced as he swung his 82 year-old body into a sitting position.

_BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM_.

"I'ma kill somebody," he slurred as he struggled to his feet, sliding into a pair of slippers and putting his glasses on. Grabbing his cane, he slowly made his way out of his bedroom.

_BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM_.

"JESUS H. CHRIST, HOLD YOUR FUCKING HORSES!" Graham bellowed as he reached the living room. For an octogenarian, he could still muster a surprising level of vocal volume.

It was clear that he had made himself heard on the front porch, because the knocking stopped. A moment later, he reached the door, and preparing himself to bare-handedly kill whoever dared to interrupt his slumber, wrenched it open.

The open door revealed the people he absolutely least wanted to see at that time of the day – Sarah Walker, Chuck Bartowski, John Casey, and what Graham could've sworn was the assembled Partridge Family Band standing behind them. "Aw, hell no," he grumbled, and slammed the door shut.

_BAM BAM BAM_ –

He yanked the door back open. "Walker, what the FUCK do you want?" he snapped, noting with some pleasure the shocked look on her face as her fist hung in the air. "It's four o'clock in the goddamn morning!"

"Uh, Director, we're sorry to wake you," Chuck said, as Sarah composed herself. "It's just, there's a group about to take off on an Intersect Project mission, and there's a good possibility that somebody might come back dead… so, there's a wedding that needs to be performed before they go."

Graham rolled his eyes. "And so you woke up your friendly 82 year old justice of the peace to do it," he growled. "I know for a FACT that there's a justice on duty downtown right now."

Chuck shrugged. "They don't know us," he replied. "You do."

"Ain't that the goddamn truth," Graham muttered. "Fine. Get your asses inside."

The group of nine people filed into Graham's house. "Alright, so who's gettin' married?" he asked, shuffling toward his desk to retrieve the necessary paperwork.

"My son and Casey's daughter," Chuck replied, the answer freezing Graham in his tracks. He turned around.

"No shit?" he said, facing John Casey.

Casey nodded, a look of resignation on his face. "Son of a bitch knocked my little girl up."

Graham raised an eyebrow. "And he's still alive and completely intact?" The former CIA Director smiled. "You're getting soft in your old age, General."

Sarah, meanwhile, had turned to look at Casey. "Wait a second," she said. "Did you just call my son a 'son of a bitch'?"

Casey shrugged and tried to suppress the smile trying to appear on his face. "If the shoe fits…"

Sarah strode toward Casey. "John, I swear to God…"

Chuck stepped between the two agents and put his hands on his wife's shoulders. "Okay, okay, that'll be enough," he said softly.

Graham now had a full-blown smile across his face. "This is gonna be one crazy-ass spy family, I can tell already," he said as he resumed his trek toward his desk. Opening the top drawer, he dug through several folders of forms, and then came out with a marriage license, which he handed to John Bartowski. "Fill that out while I find my seal," he instructed John, digging through another desk drawer for his notary seal.

John took the form and began to fill it out. "Where the hell is that little bastard?" Graham grumbled. He hadn't used the seal that he kept at home in years.

Finally, he found it. "Gotcha," he whispered. Turning back around, he looked at John Bartowski and Becca Casey. "Alright," he said. "You want the pretty flowery version, or are you just looking to take care of the legal shit?"

They looked at each other. "We can do the ceremony when they get back," Becca answered. "We just want it to be legal before John goes off and tries to get himself killed."

"Fair enough," Graham replied. "You got that license finished?"

John nodded, and handed the piece of paper over to Graham. "You got a witness?"

Lisa Bartowski stepped forward, took the pen from John, and signed the license in the proper place. "Superb," Graham said, using his seal to punch the L.A. County seal into the license. "Alright. John Bartowski, do you?"

"I do," John replied.

"Rebecca Casey, do you?"

She smiled and looked at John. "I do."

Graham rolled his eyes. "Then, by the power vested in me by Los Angeles County and the State of California, I now pronounce you man and wife. May God have mercy on your souls."

"Wait, what?!" John Casey spluttered. "That's it? My little girl is his wife now?"

Casey's wife Maya put a hand on his shoulder to calm him, and Becca turned around to face her father. "This is just the legal part, Daddy," she explained, an amused smile on her face. "We can do the big ceremony, with the church and you walking me down the aisle when you get back from Australia."

Casey didn't look very happy, but relented. "Alright," he said. "As long as you let me walk you down the aisle."

Becca's smile softened, but got bigger. "I promise, Daddy," she said, embracing her father.

Chuck Bartowski looked at the scene with some amusement. "I'm sorry, but is that a tear I see in John Casey's eye?" he asked.

"Ain't nothin' like the tears you're gonna be cryin' after I'm done kicking your ass, Bartowski," Casey growled back.

Graham sighed. "As much as I'm sure you all want to have your happy social time now, I'd appreciate it if you could all get the hell out of my house," he said. "I value my sleep."

Sarah made a face. "Actually," she said, dragging the words out reluctantly, "there's one more thing."

Graham looked at the ceiling. "And let me guess, it's got something to do with this mystery mission to Australia."

Sarah smiled wanly. "Yeah. You see, you're still a carded national intelligence overseer, and we need authorization…"

Graham brought a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes wearily. "I hate you so much sometimes, Walker."

* * *

**8:00 A.M.  
Studio City**

It absolutely boggled Chuck's mind that it had been less than twenty-four hours since he had gotten the call from his son, telling him that Fulcrum was back in town. Since then, his youngest daughter had been kidnapped, and his son had gotten married – to John Casey's daughter.

Unbelievable.

And now, his two oldest children, his wife, and Casey were all plotting the infiltration of Fulcrum's Australian operations and the retrieval of Alexandra Marie Bartowski. It reminded Chuck of the old days.

Almost too much so.

There was a very good chance that somebody could get seriously hurt, or even killed. And just like the old days, Chuck was going to be in a position where he could do little to nothing about it. That thought grated on him.

In fact, it grated on him so much that he decided he wasn't going to sit idly by any longer. Oh, no. Not this time.

He stood up from the couch and marched into the kitchen, where Casey was going over the details of the mission with Sarah, John, and Lisa. "I'm going with you," he announced, without preamble.

They all four turned and looked at him, shock on his children's faces, and worry on his wife's. But Casey just shook his head. "You can't, Bartowski," he replied. "It won't be safe."

Chuck folded his arms stubbornly. "It won't be any less safe than getting rescued from a bunker in Utah, or facing down terrorists in San Diego, or taking down a Colombian drug lord in Venice Beach, or saving the President, or wiping out the Firestone Boulevard Slayers," he shot back. "I mean, for God's sake, Casey, I landed a Lear Jet while the two of YOU –" he pointed at Casey and Sarah "- were bleeding like stuck pigs! Or have you forgotten about all that in your old age?"

Casey took a deep breath, but didn't say anything. Sarah, however, straightened up and headed toward Chuck. "I want you to stay here, because I don't want anything to happen to you," she said softly. "I don't know if I could deal with it."

Chuck sighed. "And how do you think I feel?" he asked. "My wife and my two oldest children, going off to save my baby girl? How do you think I would feel if something happened to one of you?"

Sarah's eyes began to water, and Chuck saw her swallow hard. "Look, I'm not asking to go along on whatever mission y'all are undertaking," he said. "I just want to be there in Australia. I'll sit in the control van, or the airplane, or, God forbid, the Wienerlicious, if that's what you want me to do. Just, don't make me stay here in Los Angeles."

The tears had begun to creep down Sarah's face, but she smiled through them. "My brave, and occasionally stupid, husband," she said softly. "How different would my life have been if I hadn't walked into that Buy More thirty years ago?"

Chuck grinned. "It would've sucked."

"Christ," Casey groaned. "Can we please return to the mission planning?"

* * *

**8:15 P.M., Australian Eastern Daylight Time  
Thursday, April 15****th****, 2038  
Kingsford-Smith International Airport  
Sydney, New South Wales, Australia**

The forty year-old Lear Jet floated down onto Runway 16L, rolling rapidly to a stop. The occupants breathed a sigh of relief – it had been a very long trip, taking nearly twenty-four hours to fly from Cordoba, with a refueling stop in Oman.

Alex Bartowski would've preferred not to have taken the trip, but at least they hadn't kept her blindfolded the entire time. In fact, the only times she had been blindfolded were on the way to the airport in Spain, and then again the last few minutes while the aircraft had been on final approach.

_Amateurs_, she snorted to herself. Didn't they know she was a Bartowski, and as such, a friggin' genius? It didn't take a rocket scientist to determine that given their relative speed and the amount of time they'd been in the air that they were somewhere on the eastern seaboard of Australia – _probably Sydney_, Alex thought to herself.

Bryce Larkin had not accompanied the group of people going to Sydney, which Alex figured increased her chances of escape and/or rescue exponentially. Bryce frightened her – he was a trained professional, a dedicated agent, a killer – but the rest of these goons were ludicrous. She figured that between the martial arts training her mother had insisted she go through, and the self-defense training the State Department put her through, that she could easily make short work of them.

That is, if she could get out of the handcuffs and shackles. Those made things difficult.

She slowly disembarked from the aircraft and was guided down a set of stairs. Alex was walked across the tarmac, and told to step up – probably into a van, she figured. As she was stepping in, her blindfold slipped, allowing her to see a little bit –

Yep, there on the horizon was the unmistakable glowing shape of the Sydney Opera House, partially obscured by skyscrapers in the foreground. There was no doubt as to where she was.

Alex shook her head. These guys were the most pathetic terrorists of all time.

* * *

**8:15 P.M., AEDT**

The US Navy VC-24 that had carried Lisa Bartowski to Los Angeles sailed in for a landing on Runway 16R. "I always wanted to go to Sydney," Chuck mused, looking out the window. "I just never figured I'd be Fulcrum hunting. Or trying to retrieve my daughter."

"I'm sure we can stay for a little while after we're done," Sarah whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. "There's LOTS of places I want to show you in the city."

As the VC-24 turned onto a taxiway, Chuck saw a minivan speeding away from a business jet. "God," he muttered. "Look at that old Lear. I can't believe that anybody would actually be willing to fly in that thing."

"Hey," Casey grumbled from across the aisle. "Watch the trash-talking. I used to have one of those, remember?"

Twenty-six years, and the Lear was still a sore spot for Casey. It had been in the Studio City Consulting Services hangar at Bob Hope Airport when a Fulcrum Marine Corps pilot strafed the hangar, and had subsequently been destroyed. Casey had never quite gotten over the destruction of his toy.

"Which Lear?" asked Lisa, leaning over toward the window. "Surely it can't be that –"

Lisa froze. Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. "No WAY," she whispered.

Chuck and Sarah both turned to look at her. "What?!" Chuck asked.

"That Lear Jet," Lisa said. "It belongs to Fulcrum!"

Chuck was out of his seat before anybody could stop him. He ran toward the front of the plane and started beating on the cockpit door. "STOP THE PLANE!" he shouted. "STOP IT!"

The Navy business jet jerked to a sudden halt. Chuck wrenched open the emergency exit, deploying the slide. He jumped onto it, and practically flew off at the end, barely keeping his balance as he ran across the tarmac.

The minivan that had driven away from the Lear Jet was rapidly shrinking in the distance. "HEY!" Chuck shouted. "STOP!"

His shouts were futile, swallowed up in the sound of a Qantas flight passing overhead. In irrational frustration, Chuck reached behind his back, and drew his Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband. Aiming at the van, he squeezed off a shot –

And much to his amazement, the van squealed to a stop, a tire blown. Chuck's jaw dropped, but he wasn't too shocked to start running toward the van as fast as he could, gun still in hand. Sarah and Casey were some distance behind him, but they were catching up.

As Chuck reached the van, the door slid open. "DROP THE GUN!" a voice yelled from inside. A man stepped out, gun pointed at Chuck.

"You drop your gun!" Chuck shouted back.

Then something happened that made Chuck's blood run cold. Another man stepped out of the van, arm around Alexandra Bartowski's neck. He had a gun to her head. "Drop your gun, Mr. Bartowski," the second man growled.

Chuck's hands went lifeless, and the gun tumbled to the tarmac. "Alex?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"DADDY?!" she shouted.

"Shit," Chuck heard John Casey mutter behind him. Then he heard two more guns hit the tarmac as Sarah and Casey dropped their weapons to the pavement.

"Very wise, Mr. Bartowski, Agent Walker, General Casey," the first man said. "Director Larkin wasn't lying when he said you were smart people."

Casey snorted. "Director Larkin, my ass."

A sedan pulled up next to the disabled van. "Don't try to follow us," the man said as Alex Bartowski was loaded into the sedan. "We're not afraid to kill her."

Chuck heard his heart pounding in his head, the sound of rushing blood roaring in his ears. "I swear to God, if you harm one hair on her head…"

But that was all he got out, as the first man hopped into the shotgun seat of the sedan, and it sped away. "SHIT!" Chuck shouted.

"SHIT!"


	9. Into the Badlands

Chuck Bartowski stood on the tarmac of Kingsford-Smith International Airport, watching the sedan drive away. The sedan with his youngest child, his baby girl, in the back seat.

He had been so close. He had disabled the first vehicle they tried to take her away in, but even after all these years, he couldn't match the training of an agent, and they'd out-played him. They had held Alex at gunpoint, and forced her into the sedan, while he looked on helplessly.

Sarah and Casey stood behind him, neither saying anything. He turned to face them, and watched, horrified, as his wife's face crumpled, her eyes filling with tears. It always ripped Chuck apart to see Sarah, the battle-scarred, time-hardened CIA operative, reduced to tears this way.

Forgetting his own emotional agony for the moment, Chuck quickly crossed to Sarah, wrapping his arms around her, embracing her as the wrenching grief overwhelmed her. She had kept her emotions at bay ever since learning of Alex's abduction, but actually watching her taken away, right in front of her, was just too much.

John Casey, wisely, did not say a word, remaining silent until Sarah's sobs were reduced to a mere trickle of tears and the occasional sniffle. "Alright, then," he finally said. "What now?"

Chuck looked up at him and sighed. "A trade."

Casey raised an eyebrow. "A trade?"

Chuck nodded. "Me for her."

Sarah pulled away from Chuck, shock written on her face. "What?! No!"

Chuck shook his head. "Sarah, look. I'm fifty-seven years old. Alex is twenty-five. She's got her whole life ahead of her. Besides which, I'm not all that unique anymore – there's two other human Intersects beside me, and John and Lisa both work much faster than I do."

Sarah folded her arms, her mouth set in a grim line. "And what about me?"

Chuck looked confused. "I'm not sure I follow."

Sarah laughed in disbelief. "You know, me, your wife, the woman you promised to love, protect, and honor for 'as long as we both shall live'? Don't I get any say in this?"

Chuck looked at the ground. "Sarah, for once, I'm going to appeal to the agent side of you. You need to realize –"

"That my husband is putting his life in danger," Sarah shot back angrily. "Screw the agent side of me."

"Then think of it as Alex's mother," Chuck replied softly, his face serious. That statement knocked Sarah off kilter, conflicting emotions raging behind her eyes. And then Chuck smiled.

"Besides which, I'm not planning this as a suicide mission," he said. "I'm planning on getting Casey here to figure out some way to track me, and then come get me out once Alex is safe."

Casey looked at Chuck incredulously for a moment, and then slowly smiled. "Now we're talkin', Bartowski."

* * *

**Canberra, ACT, Australia**

Bryce Larkin always got the creeps from being in this complex by himself. It wasn't that large, but it was underground, and when it was just him and a super-mega-computer, it was a little creepy.

Soon, though, Fulcrum would have enough active agents to fully staff the Intersect complex. Located under a field near Weston Creek, there was practically no sign at all that it was even there. The entrance was through a small shed behind a house about a quarter mile from the actual complex.

Every time he came here, he had this irrational fear that he was going to walk into the building, and the Intersect computer was going to say, "Good morning, Dave," or better yet, call him Mr. Knight. At that point, Bryce was going to run screaming into the Australian outback, and never return.

But he knew that that wasn't going to happen. He knew, rationally, that the Intersect computer was just a database, and while it had AI circuits to recognize intelligence patterns, it wasn't actually self-aware.

Nonetheless, Bryce was so absorbed in trying to avoid the creeps that when his cell implant warbled, he almost jumped through the ceiling. He took a few breaths to calm down, and then said, "Answer."

"_Bryce._"

Bryce smiled. The unmistakable voice. "Chuck."

"_I want my daughter back._"

"And what are you willing to give me for her, Chuck?"

"_Myself._"

Bryce raised his eyebrows. Now THAT was an interesting proposition. "You'd trade yourself for your daughter."

"_In a heartbeat, Bryce._"

Bryce slowly nodded his head. Of course Chuck would do something like that. Something noble, and yet eminently stupid. That was how Chuck had always been. It was how Bryce was able to screw him over at Stanford, and it was how Bryce was able to steal Jill from him.

"Alright, Chuck," Bryce said, his voice taking on a rather evil-sounding tone of victory. "Be at the train station in Bundanoon, at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. And come by yourself – if I see Sarah or Casey there, I'll kill your daughter and then I'll kill you."

* * *

**11:30 P.M., Australian Eastern Daylight Time  
Thursday, April 15****th****, 2038  
Sydney Harbour Marriott  
30 Pitt St., Sydney, NSW, Australia**

"You're out of your damn mind, Bartowski," Casey growled angrily. "You're gonna go in there by yourself and hope that Bryce sticks to his word?!"

"What else am I supposed to do?" Chuck demanded. "Bryce told me he'd kill Alex and then me if he saw either you or Sarah there."

Casey shook his head and looked at the ceiling. "So he doesn't have to SEE us," he shot back. "We'll hide on rooftops, whatever, cover her extraction."

He looked at Chuck. "And then there's the small matter of you putting yourself in Fulcrum's grasp," he said. "What the hell is your plan there?"

Chuck shrugged. "Simple. Your favorite method of tracking people."

Casey raised an eyebrow, and then smiled. "Nanotrackers," he said quietly. "Alright, Bartowski, that's good. They're passive, so Bryce won't know that they're there, but we'll be able to pick up on you."

Sarah turned to Chuck, a look of disbelief on her face. "And why the hell didn't you share this with me when I thought you were planning a suicide mission?!"

Chuck sighed. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I just figured it out ten minutes ago."

Then Chuck gasped, looking like he had been kicked in the stomach, and jumped up. "Oh, shit!"

Sarah and Casey both jumped up in alarm. "What is it, Chuck?"

"Bartowski!"

Chuck looked at Sarah, and then at Casey, and smiled weakly. "I forgot to file my taxes."

* * *

**8:00 A.M., AEDT  
Friday, April 16****th****, 2008  
Bundanoon, NSW, Australia**

"_All units, this is Foxtrot Cobra. Fall back to town of Bundanoon. Bring the package with you._

"_Upon arrival in Bundanoon, set up a perimeter around the train station, including rooftop snipers. Be prepared for CIA activity._"

* * *

**10:00 A.M.**

The Holden sedan and the Dodge minivan stopped on the outskirts of town. Sarah, with tears in her eyes, didn't say anything, instead just leaning across the seat and kissing Chuck good-bye.

As she got out of the car, Casey walked up to the driver's window. "Alright, Bartowski, roll up your sleeve."

Chuck did as ordered. He had been drinking nanotracker-infested water since midnight, but Casey wanted to ensure that the nanotrackers made it into Chuck's bloodstream as well.

Casey swabbed the inside of Chuck's elbow with an alcohol pad, and then withdrew a sterile syringe from his pocket. Breaking the seal on it, he punched the needle into a small bottle, and withdrew two CCs of a clear fluid.

Pushing the needle into a vein in Chuck's arm, Casey slowly injected the nanotracker-infested saline into Chuck. "These should circulate through your entire body within the next six hours," Casey informed him. "By that time, the ones you digested should be moving into your bloodstream as well."

Chuck nodded, but didn't say anything. "Good luck, Bartowski."

Chuck put the Holden back into gear and drove away. Casey jogged back to the van, and opened the door.

"Alright, so here's the deal," he told the van's other occupants. "Walker and I are going to take rooftop sniper positions. John –" he pointed to John Bartowski – "you will be driving the van. Lisa, you'll be riding shotgun, covering your father, and as soon as you have a chance, you'll be moving to his car, so that when your sister gets in, you can egress immediately. Clear?"

Sarah, John, and Lisa Bartowski all nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

Bryce Larkin's black Nissan rolled to a stop in front of the train station. He stepped out, and activated his cell implant. "Eagle One, report?"

"_Eagle One, copy and in position._"

"Eagle Two?"

"_In position and ready._"

Bryce smiled. He had two rooftop snipers, there to make sure nothing untoward happened – and also to take out Alexandra Bartowski's tires when she drove away in Chuck's car. She'd be joining her father in captivity less than five minutes into her freedom.

* * *

"Walker, this is Casey. How copy?"

"_Read you five by, Casey. What's the situation?_"

"We've got two rooftop snipers, looks like," Casey replied. "Larkin just got out of the car with Alex Bartowski. I've got a bead on him – we ought to take him out right now."

"_Can't do that, Casey. First of all, we do that, the snipers kill my daughter. Secondly, we take out Bryce, we never find out what the hell Fulcrum is doing._"

Casey pondered that. "Fair enough," he replied. "Take out the snipers?"

"_On three._"

Casey lay down on the roof he was perched on, holding the stock of the directed-energy rifle to his cheek. A product of the Iraq war at the beginning of the 21st century, the directed-energy weapon was almost like a _Star Trek_ style phaser – it emitted a tightly focused beam of energy that would overload the target's nervous system, knocking them out for anywhere from fifteen minutes to four hours, depending on the setting.

Casey had his on full charge, which would give him, max, three shots on this battery pack. He only figured he'd need one.

"_One… two… three._"

Casey's weapon fired silently, a barely-noticeable beam of light spurting from the barrel of the rifle. Through his scope, he watched his target freeze, and then collapse.

"Sayonara, motherfucker," Casey muttered. "Walker, your target down?"

"_That's affirmative._"

* * *

"Alright," John Bartowski said, as he heard that both targets were down. "Let's roll!"

He pushed down the gas pedal, and the van shot forward. "Fucking unnatural, riding shotgun on the left hand side," Lisa muttered.

* * *

Chuck's Holden sedan pulled into the parking lot, stopping across the lot from Bryce's Nissan. Chuck took a deep breath, then turned off the car. He stepped out, leaving the keys in the ignition and the door open, and started walking toward the black vehicle.

When he was about twenty feet away, Bryce reached into the sedan and pulled Alex out. Grabbing his keys, he unlocked the handcuffs on her wrists, and tossed them to Chuck. "Put these on!" he called.

Chuck complied, Bryce holding a gun to Alex's head as he did so. "Now get in the car!"

Chuck walked toward the Nissan. "Keys are in the ignition," he whispered to his daughter as he walked past. "I love you."

He turned and got into the car, and then yelled, "NOW RUN!"

Alex took off running. Bryce looked startled, but made no attempt to stop her. "Fair's fair, Chuck," he said, although he had a look in his eyes that Chuck didn't like.

However, Bryce was about to be shocked again. As Alex reached the Holden sedan, the Dodge minivan came flying into the parking lot. "You FUCKER!" Bryce shouted at Chuck. "Fire, fire, fire!" he yelled.

But nothing happened, aside from Lisa Bartowski jumping out of the van and running toward the silver Holden. "SHIT!" Bryce bellowed, and he jumped into the Nissan. Turning the car on, he peeled out of the parking lot, Chuck's door swinging shut from the force of the acceleration.

"You son of a bitch," Bryce growled at Chuck. "You set me up somehow, didn't you?"

Chuck grinned. "Wouldn't have been a very good idea if I didn't, now would it?"

"Fuck off," Bryce hissed. Reaching into the back seat, he slapped what looked like a cloth patch onto Chuck's chest. "I know that Casey's a fan of nanotrackers, so enjoy your signal inhibitor, Chuck. No signals will be getting past that thing, even passive ones."

Chuck's grin faded, and he sagged a little. _Well, shit_.

* * *

Casey and Sarah came running into the parking lot of the train station. "We've got some time until those Fulcrum goons wake up," Sarah informed her children. "Let's get this figured out."

Lisa nodded. "Mom, you and I are going to take Alex and get her the hell out of Australia. I've got _Montana_ sitting in Sydney Harbor – we can extract her that way."

"John and I can go after Chuck," Casey added. John looked surprised. "Figure it's time to give the boy a baptism by fire, don't you?"

Sarah smiled. "You're ridiculous, John. You do realize that your daughter's going to have your head when she realizes how you're corrupting her…" Sarah paused, and her smile turned into a fully evil grin. "Her _husband_?"

Casey's smile faded, but then he appeared to have a thought. He drew his Glock, and pulled back the slide, letting it snap back into place. "Shiny," he said, sarcastically. "Let's be bad guys!"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Alright, you two go."

"Uh, there's a problem," John interjected. "Dad's signal is faded."

Casey shrugged. "No big deal. He's headed toward Canberra. This town's halfway between Canberra and Sydney, and that's the direction that Bryce headed. Doesn't take a genius to figure that one out."

"Then let's go!" John said.

"Don't have to ask me twice," Casey replied, climbing into the driver's seat of the van. "Get a move on!"

John jumped into the van, and it headed out of the parking lot, a cloud of dust trailing behind it, leaving the three Bartowski women standing by Chuck's car.

"Well," Lisa said, "the _Montana_'s not gonna get any closer. Let's go."

* * *

An hour and a half later, the silver Holden sedan pulled up to the dock where USS _Montana_ was tied up. Lisa was the first out of the car. "Ah, home sweet home," she sighed, pulling her _Montana_ ballcap out of her back pocket and jamming it on her head.

She headed toward the gangplank, her sister and her mother in tow. "LIEUTENANT MILLIKEN!" she shouted, getting the attention of the helmsman, standing in the conning tower.

His head snapped around toward her. "YES, MA'AM!" he yelled back, smiling as he recognized her.

"REQUEST PERMISSION TO COME ABOARD!"

"PERMISSION GRANTED!"

"Alright, let's go," Lisa said to Alex and Sarah. The three women headed up the gangplank, onto the old Virginia-class submarine.

"Alex, you head in first," Lisa said to her sister when they reached the conning tower. Alex looked through the hatch into the submarine with some trepidation, but nonetheless descended into the gloomy boat.

Lisa waited till her sister was out of the way, and then headed down herself. Her feet hit the deck, and she turned to face her sister –

Who was being held at gunpoint by Captain Wilkinson. Lisa's face drained of color as she took in the sight of her youngest sister, a gun to her head, her commanding officer's arm wrapped around Alex's neck.

"Captain Wilkinson?!" Lisa asked in shock and horror. "What the hell?!"

He smiled cruelly. "Welcome back, Commander Bartowski. Please, call me Agent Badlands."

The name clicked in Lisa's head, and she flashed – documents regarding Agent Badlands, his service record in the US Navy, his recruitment into –

"Oh God," Lisa breathed. She had just walked her sister right back into the hands of Fulcrum.


	10. All Hands to Battle Stations

**12:00 PM, Australian Eastern Daylight Time  
Friday, April 16****th****, 2038  
USS **_**Montana**_**, in Sydney Harbour  
Sydney, NSW, Australia**

Lisa's face drained of color as she took in the sight of her youngest sister, a gun to her head, her commanding officer's arm wrapped around Alex's neck.

"Captain Wilkinson?!" Lisa asked in shock and horror. "What the hell?!"

He smiled cruelly. "Welcome back, Commander Bartowski. Please, call me Agent Badlands."

The name clicked in Lisa's head, and she flashed – documents regarding Agent Badlands, his service record in the US Navy, his recruitment into –

"Oh God," Lisa breathed. She had just walked her sister right back into the hands of Fulcrum.

Without warning, there was a flash of movement to Lisa's left. She turned in time to see her mother drop headfirst through the hatch and flip to land on the deck in a crouch. Sarah Walker's gun came up, and before anybody could move, the roar of a Colt 1911 filled the tiny compartment.

Captain Wilkinson's eyes went strangely blank, a red hole appearing on his forehead. Blood and brains splattered against the bulkhead behind him, and he staggered back against it, collapsing to the deck.

Alexandra Bartowski just stood there, catatonic, her eyes wide in shock. "Jesus… Christ…" Lisa breathed.

Sarah stood up from her crouch, and went to check Captain Wilkinson, as calmly as if she had just used the restroom. "He's dead," she announced, placing her fingers against his neck.

"No SHIT, Mom?!" Lisa gasped. "I never would've guessed from the fact that half of his brain is on the wall!"

Then there was quite the commotion, as every crew member in the conning tower came clattering down the ladder into the compartment below. Lieutenant Milliken had his service 1911 out, aimed at Sarah. "DROP THE GUN!" he shouted. "NOW!"

"Lieutenant!" Lisa snapped. "At ease!"

Milliken's head snapped around in confusion. "Uh… ma'am?"

"Lower your weapon, Milliken," Lisa told him. "Captain Wilkinson was an enemy agent, and he was eliminated by a CIA agent."

Milliken looked at Lisa as if she was speaking Esperanto. "Ma'am?"

She looked at Milliken and sighed in exasperation. "Rick, I'll explain later. Just, for God's sake, kindly lower your gun before you blow my mother to kingdom come."

Milliken, still looking confused, nonetheless lowered his gun. "And Mom," Lisa said, shaking her head in disbelief, "I cannot believe you did that."

Sarah looked at Lisa, an equal amount of disbelief evident on her face. "Lisa, he had a gun to your sister's head!"

"I know," Lisa replied, "and he was a Fulcrum agent."

Sarah shrugged. "Sounds like enough justification to terminate him to me."

"It's not that easy, Mom," Lisa stated. "He was a captain in the United States Navy. I could be court-martialed over this."

Sarah gave her daughter a look. "That's what you're worried about? Being court-martialed?"

"That, and the fact that you just came onboard this boat and started shooting!" Lisa shot back, the anger in her voice rising. "You cannot do that, Mom! This is a US Navy vessel! There is a chain of command, there are procedures!"

Sarah laughed. "And sometimes, you have to say to hell with the proce-"

"Not on my boat," Lisa interrupted, her voice going cold. "We WILL follow procedures, and as long as you are on this boat, you will subm-"

"Young lady, don't you dare give me lip. I am in command of this miss-"

"NOT ANYMORE."

Sarah's eyes widened. Her daughter had never spoken to her that way before. "Mom, you lost command privileges when you dropped into a US Navy submarine and shot the captain, Fulcrum agent or not."

Lisa turned to see Master Chief Petty Officer Buck Travers, the Chief of the Boat, who had quietly come into the compartment to see just what the hell was going on. "COB, I need you to take Agent Bartowski to the captain's quarters," Lisa told him. "Remove any potentially sensitive material from the cabin, and then lock her inside. Post an armed guard outside."

Sarah's jaw dropped. "You're locking me up?!"

"You're a liability to this boat, Mom," Lisa replied bitterly. "I don't have a choice."

Lisa picked up the compartment phone and dialed the medical cabin. Lieutenant Commander David Waters, M.D., picked up the phone. "Waters."

"Doc, this is Commander Bartowski," Lisa said. "Captain Wilkinson has been shot and killed. I need you to get his body into cold storage ASAP."

Doctor Waters nearly dropped the phone. "Captain – what?! When the hell did you get back?!"

Lisa shook her head. "No time for questions, Doc," she answered. "Just… take care of it."

She turned to her sister. "Alex, I want you to stay with Lieutenant Milliken. Since I need Lieutenant Milliken in the control room with me, well… I guess you're with me."

Lisa strode out of the compartment, her sister and Milliken on her tail. Sarah watched them go in open-mouthed astonishment. "Ma'am?" she heard Chief Travers say.

She turned to look at him. "I need you to come with me now, ma'am," he said.

Silently, Sarah followed Travers. He led her aft, to the captain's quarters. Stepping inside, he quickly cleared out the captain's desk. He looked at the safe, but decided there was no way for Sarah to get inside. Carrying the contents of the desk's drawers, he stepped out of the room, and Sarah heard the door lock.

Sarah seethed with rage. Stabbed in the back, by her own daughter. Unbelievable. "Call…" She thought for a moment. Who the hell COULD she call?

"Call John Casey," she instructed her cell implant. It rang, and Casey picked up.

"_Walker_," he said briefly.

"You're not gonna believe this," she hissed, anger coloring her voice. "It turns out that the C.O. of _Montana_ was Fulcrum. He was holding Alex at gunpoint. I dropped into the boat and shot him, and then Lisa had me locked up."

There was silence on the other end. "Casey?"

"_Walker…_" She heard him sigh. "_Walker, as much as I'm sure that this is not what you want to hear, your daughter was well within her rights to do that. You shot and killed a senior naval officer, and she's now in command._"

"Casey!"

"_I'm military too, Walker. I understand these things. You've always been a civilian agent, and you aren't subject to nearly as tight and rigorous a command structure as we are in the military. I'm sure that Lisa's not doing this to work out some sort of childhood aggression. She just might not trust you right at the moment._"

Sarah sighed. "Alright," she grumbled. "If you say –"

Her voice cut off as she heard a key in the door. "Uh, gotta go."

She disconnected the call as the door swung open. It was Chief Travers, accompanied by another man. They both looked to Sarah to be in their late forties or early fifties.

"Agent Bartowski," Chief Travers said, "I'm Buck Travers. This is the ship's doctor, Dave Waters. We have something we need to speak with you about."

Sarah shrugged. "I've got nothing better to do," she replied. "I'm all ears."

Travers nodded. "I hope so… Operative."

* * *

**12:15 P.M., AEDT  
Canberra, ACT, Australia**

Chuck was tied to a chair in a large white room. One wall of the room consisted of monitors. "Got yourself a brand new Intersect, huh, Bryce?" he asked.

"Shut up, Chuck," Bryce spat.

"What's the point?" Chuck shot back. "What exactly do you think you can do with this?"

"WREAK HAVOC, CHUCK!" Bryce roared, turning back on his former friend with such ferociousness that Chuck flinched. "I've had it with the United fucking States of America, and with the CIA, and with Studio City Consulting Services – what a lame ass name, by the way – and most of all, with YOU, you goddamn woman-stealing son of a bitch!"

Chuck's ire began to rise. "I'M a woman-stealing son of a bitch?!" he growled. "You're one to talk, Jill-fucker!"

"FUCK YOU!" Bryce shouted. "Jill came to me, you jackass!" Chuck blanched. That was a first. "After you got kicked out of Stanford, she came to ME! She couldn't stand the fact that you had been expelled! She felt betrayed!"

"Oh, WELL!" Chuck yelled back. "I guess that makes TWO of us who were betrayed right around that time! It wasn't GOOD enough for you that you'd gotten me kicked out, but you had to be the comforter for Jill as well? You dickless FUCK!"

Bryce laughed bitterly. "Dickless? I think Jill… and SARAH… would tell you otherwise."

"Oh, I'm gonna KILL you when I get out of these restraints," Chuck threatened Bryce.

"Riiiight," Bryce drawled. "Oh, by the way, let's talk about Sarah a little bit."

"Don't you dare even start," Chuck spat. "We've been married for twenty-nine years. And if you're interested, she moved on me before I ever moved on her."

"Excuses, excuses," Bryce snapped, rolling his eyes. "You KNEW how I felt about her, and yet you still decided to go for her!"

"YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT I DID," Chuck shouted. "I fell in love with her, she fell in love with me! IT'S THE WAY SOCIETY WORKS!"

Without warning, Bryce's fist flashed out, and caught Chuck in the mouth. The force of the blow was enough to topple Chuck. His chair fell, and he banged his head against the floor.

Chuck lay there for a moment, stunned, but his bearings came back as Bryce picked his chair up. He could taste blood in his mouth, and –

Wait a second. There was blood in his mouth. Blood that was chock full of nano-trackers.

Careful not to make himself too obvious, Chuck turned his head to the left and spat out the mouthful of blood. "How appetizing," Bryce said dryly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go try to get this thing online."

Bryce never realized that the puddle of blood was outside the range of the signal suppressor on Chuck's chest.

* * *

**Outside Canberra**

"I GOT HIM!" John Bartowski shouted, as the signal blinked into life on the laptop screen in front of him.

"Hot fuckin' diggity," Casey replied, as he started up the minivan. "Where's he at?"

"Looks like he's about five miles from he-"

John's voice was cut off as he flashed on the location. "Holy shit," he breathed when the flash ended. "He's five miles from here, in an underground Fulcrum complex…"

He turned to Casey, a look of horror in his eyes. "That houses a fully operational Intersect megacomputer."

Casey didn't react, just pressed the gas pedal closer to the floor.

* * *

**USS **_**Montana**_

Sarah's eyes widened. Nobody had called her by that nickname in almost thirty years. Nobody should have even KNOWN that nickname, least of all two men onboard a submarine.

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about," she said quietly.

Chief Travers smiled. "Sarah Walker," he replied. "Central Intelligence Agency deep cover operative. Nicknamed 'The Operative' in late 2005 due to your repeated successes."

Sarah tensed herself, ready to spring upward and eliminate both of the two men, if need be. "How do you know that?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous.

Dr. Waters spoke. "USS _Chicago_, Norway, March 2006," he said. Sarah's breath caught. She remembered that mission quite clearly. "I was a corpsman, Travers was a sonar tech. It was both of our first cruise. You came onboard, along with that Agent Larkin guy."

"Real douchebag, if you ask me," Travers muttered.

"I definitely remember the mission," Sarah said quietly. "And as far as Bryce Larkin being a douchebag – you have no idea."

Travers furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

Sarah sighed. "Those two women I came onboard with – they're my daughters."

"Right," Travers replied. "The commander, and her sister Alexandra. We've seen pictures."

Sarah nodded. "Right. Well, up until about two and a half hours ago, Alex was being held captive by Bryce Larkin. He's gone rogue, he's an enemy agent. Captain Wilkinson was working for the same organization, which is why I shot him."

Chief Travers and Dr. Waters looked at each other, understanding dawning on their faces. "Then that makes why we came down here even more important," Waters said quietly.

Sarah looked from one man to the other. "What's going on?"

Travers sighed. "If you feel like you're better suited to handle whatever mission it is that you and your daughter are undertaking… well, let's just say that we've seen you in action before, and we know that you've got what it takes. Just give us the word, Dr. Waters will declare your daughter unfit for command, and I'm pretty certain that you've got some sort of national command authorization that would allow you to take command of the boat."

Sarah slowly sat down on the bunk. She could take command. She still had her National Command Authority ID card. She could make sure that this mission went through to where it needed to go…

And her daughter would likely never forgive her. No, Sarah couldn't start a mutiny on her own daughter's submarine.

"No," she said quietly. "Thank you, but there are better ways than mutiny."

Travers nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "However, we are still ready to receive your orders."

"Take me to the control room," Sarah replied.

* * *

Lisa stood in the center of _Montana_'s control room. Alex sat behind her, in the command chair, fascinated by everything going on.

The squawk sounded, and Lisa reached out and pressed a button, activating it. "Bridge."

"_Lisa, this is your mother_," she heard. Lisa sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Yes, Mom?"

"_Listen. Chief Travers is bringing me to the control room._" Lisa's eyes widened, and she signaled to Lt. Milliken to get his sidearm out. Then, as if her mother could read her mind, Sarah said, "_Don't worry, I'm not going to start trouble. I'll do whatever you tell me to._"

Lisa waved Milliken back into his seat. "Alright, Mom. But if I tell you to do something, I need you to not argue."

"_Of course. However, you should know, I've got John Casey on the phone. He's found your father. He's in a Fulcrum complex in Canberra, and Casey's recommending a missile strike as soon as he gets your father out of there._"

Lisa's jaw dropped. "Mom, are you seriously advocating launching Tomahawk missiles against a target in a friendly country without authorization?!"

"_Lisa, first of all, I can give you authorization. Secondly, the complex apparently contains a fully operational Intersect._"

And that was what did it for Lisa. Turning away from the squawk, she grabbed the mic for the 1MC. "All hands, this is the captain," she announced. "Report to battle stations and rig for silent running. Weapons control, prepare for Tomahawk missile launch."

She hung up the 1MC. "Dive officer, take us to 400 feet. Helm – full ahead!"

A klaxon sounded throughout the boat, warning that it was about to dive. USS _Montana_ was going to war, and Fulcrum was going to pay.


	11. There Is No Joy In Mudville

**1:30 P.M., Australian Eastern Daylight Time  
Friday, August 16****th****, 2038  
USS **_**Montana**_**  
Off the coast of Sydney, NSW, Australia**

USS _Montana_ was patrolling an orbit off the southeast coast of Australia. The weapons room had used the coordinates that they had gotten from John Casey to set targets for four conventional Tomahawk missiles. Lisa had ordered the one nuclear missile taken completely offline, just in case.

Now, they were waiting for the signal from John Casey telling them that they could launch. Lisa wanted to wait until Casey had let them know that he, John, and Chuck had all gotten out of the complex before launching the missiles – it would be a flight time of, at most, fifteen minutes from _Montana_ to the complex outside of Canberra.

Lisa could quite frankly care less if they got Bryce Larkin out with them. In fact, she was hoping that they'd disable him somehow so that he could burn with his damn ersatz Intersect.

She was getting antsy, though. "Weapons, this is the bridge. Cycle missile doors and run static firing test."

"_Uh, Commander, we just did that fifteen minutes ago._"

"Well, do it again!"

Lisa's short tone caused everybody on the bridge to look at her – Alex, her mother, Lieutenant Milliken, and the rest of the bridge crew. "Sorry," she sighed, holding up a hand. "Just a little nervous."

Rick Milliken smiled. "Come on, Commander, this can't be as harrowing as sailing up the Colorado River and taking out terrorists with a nuke, can it?"

Sarah's eyes widened as she stared at her daughter. "You did WHAT?!"

Lisa groaned and narrowed her eyes at Lieutenant Milliken. "Rick. Shut. UP!"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, turning bright red as he realized he had just revealed a highly classified mission.

"_Bridge, weps. We are cycling missile doors now._"

Lisa couldn't hear, but she could feel the doors to the Tomahawk tubes opening and then closing again. The funny thing was, a sonar that was tuned just right could pick them up from miles –

"_CONN, SONAR, WE HAVE A CONTACT AT FIVE THOUSAND YARDS, BEARING 102, CLOSING FAST!_"

WHAT THE FUCK?!

Lisa grabbed the microphone. "Do you have an acoustic signature on the contact?"

"_Yes, ma'am, it's either a US Seawolf class sub, or an Australian Sydney class boat._"

"Try to get a confirm-"

Lisa was interrupted by the buzzing of the gertrude underwater telephone. Gingerly, she reached out and picked it up. "_Montana_, control room."

"Montana_, this is USS _Seawolf_. You will cease and desist operations immediately, or we will be forced to intervene._"

Lisa's head drooped. Of all the boats to come after her, it had to be her old boat – and her old commanding officer, Captain Merritt Banks. "_Seawolf_, this is _Montana_. We are on a highly classified search-and-destroy mission. You will not intervene, or there will be severe consequences."

"Montana_, we are well aware that you plan to destroy a Fulcrum installation. We cannot allow that to happen. I'm sorry, Lisa._"

The words "Fulcrum installation" hit Lisa like a physical blow. Captain Banks? He couldn't be Fulcrum, could he?!

"Captain Banks… this is Commander Bartowski. Can you answer a question for me?"

"_The answer to your question is yes, I am, Commander. I need to speak with Captain Wilkinson, please._"

"Captain Wilkinson is… uh… unavailable."

There was a long pause over the gertrude. "_That is regrettable, _Montana." And the transmission ended.

"SHIT!" Lisa shouted, hanging up the gertrude. "Lieutenant Milliken, evasive maneuvers, RIGHT NOW!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Lieutenant Milliken barked, leaping to his feet. "Helm, put us on a bearing directly toward _Seawolf_. Propulsion, I need full power immediately!"

_Montana_ heeled over in a sharp right hand turn, and accelerated rapidly. "Rick, what the hell are you doing?!" Lisa asked.

"Closing the distance between us and _Seawolf_ as rapidly as possible," Milliken replied. "If we're within the range gate of a torpedo, it won't detonate when it hits."

"You are one crazy bast-"

"_CONN, SONAR, TORPEDOES IN THE WATER!_"

"Shit," Milliken muttered. "Well, there goes that idea. Helm, maintain course and speed."

"RICK!"

"I have an idea, ma'am," Milliken said without even turning around. "Weapons, this is control. Are the Tomahawks prepared for launch?"

"_Uh, affirmative, sir, except for the targeting package._"

"Can we send them targets after they've been launched?"

There was silence from the weapons room. "Weps?"

"_Uh, theoretically, yes, sir, provided that the weapons control computers are still online and communicating._"

"That's all I need to know," Milliken replied. "Make missile tubes one through four ready for launch and begin a ten second countdown as soon as they are ready."

"_Weapons, affirmative._"

"_Conn, sonar, twenty seconds to impact! Fifteen!_"

"_Conn, this is weapons, Tomahawk missiles launching in ten… nine…_"

"_Conn, sonar, ten seconds to impact!_"

"_Eight… seven…_"

Lisa picked up the 1MC. "All hands, brace for impact. Repeat, all hands, brace for impact!"

"_Five seconds to impact!_"

"HELM, FULL REVERSE, HEADING ONE-TWO!" Milliken yelled, ordering a Crazy Ivan in a last-ditch attempt to evade the torpedo.

"_Two… one…_"

_Montana_ shuddered as she rapidly decelerated and her hull swung around to the left. A rapid series of four _whoosh_es announced the launch of the Tomahawks.

"_CONN, SONAR, TORPEDO HAS PASSED US CLOSE INB-_"

The torpedo exploded fifty feet from USS _Montana_, the shockwave hitting her port side with the force of the fist of God.

* * *

**1:45 P.M., AEDT  
Canberra, ACT, Austalia**

"According to the computer, we're right on top of your father," Casey mused, frustration evident in his voice. "So where the hell is the entrance to this thing?"

Casey and John Bartowski stood on the side of the highway, looking at an empty field. A ramshackle house with a tiny shed behind it stood a quarter mile away.

"It's gotta be around here somewhere," John replied. "We could always ask the neighbors."

Casey rolled his eyes. "We can't just go door-to-door and say, 'Hey, folks, seen an American terrorist organization building a secret underground complex recently?'"

John pouted. "Well, we could."

"Or we could just look," Casey replied. "Go check around that house over there. I'll check the tree stand behind us."

John nodded and headed toward the house. He knocked on the door – no answer. "Hello?" he called. Still nothing.

Wary of breaking into the house, he backed away from it, and headed for the shed in the back. He pulled the door open –

"Holy shit," he breathed. A code-access elevator door stood in front of him. "Call: John Casey," he told his cell implant urgently.

"_What is it?_"

"I think I found the way in," John replied. "The shed behind the house!"

Casey came jogging up a few minutes later, puffing from the exertion. "Goddammit I hate being old," he grumbled. "Okay, so how do we get in, genius?"

"No problem," John shot back. "The Intersect already told me how to override the panel."

"The Intersect," Casey muttered. "I would be happy to never hear those words ever again."

John didn't say anything, just smiled and went to work. A moment later, the elevator doors opened. "And down we go," Casey said.

* * *

**USS **_**Montana**_

Lisa's eyes flickered open. The control room was bathed in dim red light. Several people around her were coughing. "Re… report," she croaked. "Damage report!"

"Power and propulsion are offline, ma'am," Milliken replied. He had the voice-activated telephone in his left hand, his right hand holding what looked like part of his shirt to his temple. The cloth was soaked in blood. "The reactor has been SCRAM'd."

"Do we have depth control?" Lisa asked, struggling to her feet. Somehow, neither her mother nor her sister had been hurt, and they were tending to the injured crew in the control room.

"Working on it," Milliken replied. "The hydraulic controls are stuck, but if we can get them unstuck, we can do an emergency blow –"

As he spoke, the sound of rushing air filled the submarine. Lisa could feel as the deck of _Montana_ tilted, the boat heading toward the surface of the Pacific Ocean.

"There we go," Milliken said, smiling. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm bleeding like a stuck pig –"

Lisa smiled and nodded. "Go see the doctor," she replied. Taking the voice-activated phone from his hand, she said, "Bridge to weapons."

A moment later, the phone was picked up. Over the scratchy connection, she heard, "_Bridge, this is weapons. How copy?_"

"Read you loud and clear, weapons. What's our status?"

"_We are completely down, Commander. Torpedo tubes are not responding to commands, and we have lost communication with the Tomahawks._"

"Shit," Lisa breathed. "How long do we have until they self-destruct, and can we re-establish comms?"

"_We've got about five more minutes till they self-destruct. The only way of re-establishing comms with them is an emergency radio link. That was designed as a backup for extreme emergencies, and all we can do with that is send an encrypted burst transmission that will give them a radio frequency to track on._"

Lisa's heart leaped in her chest. "Then by all means, let's do that!"

"_Well, ma'am, unfortunately, the problem there is that the Tomahawks were pre-programmed with a frequency that wasn't in use twenty years ago… but is now heavily used by Verizon Global for cellular implants._"

"Which should be fine, because Verizon doesn't have customers in Australia," Lisa responded.

"_Except for your family, ma'am_."

"So I'll call them and have them turn their implants off," Lisa said. "End of story."

"_Alright, ma'am. Your call._"

"Do it."

"Montana, _this is _Seawolf."

Oh shit. How long had THEY been listening in?

"Montana, _we couldn't help but monitor your conversation over our sonar. I would highly recommend you not send any transmissions to those missiles, or we will be forced to fire on you again._"

The weapons officer came back. "_Commander Bartowski?_"

Lisa closed her eyes. Sacrifice herself, her mother, her sister? Or let Fulcrum get bigger and badder?

"Weapons, this is the bridge, SEND THE TRANSMISSION."

"_That was a serious mistake, Commander Bartowski,_" she heard Captain Banks say disapprovingly. "_Your funeral, no-_"

Without warning, his voice cut off, and Lisa heard an announcement in the background of _Seawolf_'s control room. "_CONN, SONAR, TORPEDO IN THE WATER!_"

"What the hell?!" Lisa asked herself. Then the gertrude went dead.

A moment later, they could feel the rumble as the torpedo exploded not too far away. "Jesus," Lisa muttered, raising the mechanical periscope.

She turned it around, scanning the ocean's surface – and then watched in astonishment as _Seawolf_ breached the surface of the ocean, a huge gash in her starboard side. She didn't appear to be in danger of sinking – but one could never be too sure.

Lisa picked up the voice-activated phone again. "Weapons, bridge. Get rescue teams topside and launch the rescue boats. We may have to pull people off of _Seawolf_ pretty quick here."

"_Copy that, Commander._"

Then an unexpected voice broke through. "_Tally-ho, _Montana_, this is _Brisbane!"

Lisa grinned. The Australian boat that she had dogged throughout the wargames… just earlier that week! "_Brisbane_, this is _Montana_, I believe you might owe us a few less rounds after that one!"

"_Damn skippy, _Montana. _In fact, I'm pretty sure you owe us one!_"

That's when Lisa remembered. The Tomahawks. "Uh, _Brisbane_, can we continue this conversation later? I've got a situation here."

"_Roger that._"

Lisa hung up the voice-activated phone. "Call: John Casey."

* * *

**Canberra**

John Casey and John Bartowski had just stepped off the elevator into the Fulcrum complex when Casey's phone warbled. "Shit!" Casey hissed. "Answer!"

"_Uncle John?_"

"Lisa!" Casey whispered. "Now is not the best time!"

"_I know, but listen! We had to target the Tomahawks on a radio frequency, specifically the one that Verizon Global uses for cell implants! I need you and John to turn yours off, and I need you to put a transmitter in… wherever… that transmits on the same frequency!_"

"Copy that," Casey replied. "How much time do we have?"

"_Fifteen minutes, give or take._"

"Thanks, Lisa. End call. Disable implant."

The implant in Casey's ear went dead. "John, turn off your implant. Then get your ass back up to the van, and grab the portable radio that's in the back end."

John didn't argue, just said, "Yes, sir," and got back on the elevator. Casey heard him say, "Disable implant," as the doors closed.

Casey turned away from the elevator and started jogging down the corridor. He ignored every door along the way, knowing Fulcrum too well – the important stuff would be at the end of the hall.

And he was right. He burst through the door at the end of the corridor into a gleaming white room. One end was covered in monitors. A supercomputer sat in the middle of the room, Bryce Larkin sitting in front of it. A slightly bruised and battered Chuck Bartowski sat on the other side of the computer.

Chuck's eyes widened when he saw Casey come in the door. Bryce didn't see Casey, but rather, saw Chuck's reaction. He turned toward the door, and opened his mouth –

But none of it mattered, as John Casey's gun came up and put a bullet into Bryce's chest. Bryce flew backwards and lay very still. Casey dashed across the room to Chuck and began to untie him from the chair.

"Is your cell implant on?" he asked.

"No," Chuck replied. "Why?"

"Nothing," Casey said. "Wait. It wouldn't matter. You're AT&T, right?"

"Yeah…"

"Fine, turn yours on, call your daughter, and tell her that we're clear of the complex."

Casey started heading for the door, expecting Chuck to be right behind him. "Wait," he heard Chuck call.

Casey turned around in exasperation. "No, Chuck, we're not taking Larkin with us," he growled.

"No, that's not it," Chuck replied. "Aren't you gonna make sure he's dead?"

Casey's face broke into a huge grin. "Now THAT's more like it, Bartowski," he replied. "No, believe me, he'll be taken care of in a moment. Now call your daughter, and move your ass!"

Casey started jogging back toward the elevator. Behind him, he heard Chuck say, "Call Lisa Bartowski," and then a moment later, "Babe, it's Dad. We're out."

Casey and Chuck reached the elevator a moment later. Just as they got there, the doors opened, revealing John Bartowski, radio in hand. "Casey, here – DAD!"

John practically leapt on his father, embracing him. Chuck awkwardly patted his son on the back. "It's okay, John, I'm alright," he said, a rueful smile on his face.

"Okay," Casey said. "You two get your asses back up above ground. I'm gonna go place this in the Intersect room, and I'll be up in a moment."

Chuck and John boarded the elevator, and the doors closed. Casey turned and ran back toward the Intersect room, programming the radio as he went.

He burst back into the gleaming white room, pressed and locked the transmit button on the radio, and was about to set it down –

A sharp crack and a sudden burst of pain in his abdomen stopped John Casey dead in his tracks. The radio clattered to the floor, and he looked down at his stomach.

Blood was pouring from a wound right in the center of his belly, and he suddenly felt faint. He looked up, and there was Bryce Larkin, smiling evilly, a gun pointed at him.

"Are you kidding, Casey?" Bryce sneered. "I knew you'd come after Chuck! I wore a bulletproof vest! It's pretty much my number one rule for survival – always have protection when John Casey's on the loose!"

Casey collapsed to his knees. "You… son of a bitch…" he gasped, stretching his hand out to grab the radio.

"I think not," Bryce snapped, his left hand coming up. A handheld directed energy weapon fired, shooting a beam into the radio, frying it immediately.

"What was that, Casey?" Bryce asked. "A bomb? Were you gonna take out my Intersect?"

He stopped and laughed. "Ironic, don't you think? I took down the first Intersect with a bomb, and then you shot me. Now, you try to take down my Intersect with a bomb, but I shoot you first."

Bryce strode toward Casey, closing the gap between them quickly, and kicked Casey in the stomach – right where Bryce had shot him. Pain radiated through Casey's body like fire, and he fell over backward. "Good," Bryce spat. "You stay there, and I'll go take care of the Bartowski boys."

Bryce stomped away from Casey, toward the door – and then there was another sharp crack. Bryce cried out in pain as his right knee seemed to explode, and he collapsed to the floor. "Like hell you will, Larkin," Casey croaked out.

Bryce rolled over to see Casey, gun in his blood-soaked right hand, a manic grin on his face. "If I'm gonna die, you're gonna die with me, you son of a bitch," Casey said triumphantly. "That wasn't a bomb, you dumbass. That was a frequency transmitter. There are four Tomahawk missiles on the way… and guess what? I have a backup!"

Bryce went white. "What?!"

Casey's smile got bigger, and he forced himself up to a sitting position. "Enable implant," he breathed, and his cell implant clicked on.

"No…" Bryce breathed. "Oh, HELL NO!"

* * *

**USS **_**Montana**_

"_Conn, weapons, we have partial systems back! Tomahawks are showing a positive lock-on! Five minutes to impact!_"

Lisa thrust her fist in the air triumphantly.

* * *

**Canberra**

Bryce started to crawl toward his gun, but Casey fired again, shooting the gun and sending it skittering out of Bryce's reach. "Not a fucking chance, Larkin," he growled.

Then he changed his tone of voice. "Call: Rebecca Casey. Conference: Bartowski. Conference: Walker."

Chuck and Sarah both picked up on the first ring. "_Hello?_" he heard Chuck's voice say, and then, "_Walker,_" from Sarah.

"Hold on, folks," he grunted. Becca finally picked up on the fourth ring. "_Hello?_"

"Hey, baby," Casey breathed.

"_Daddy! Are you gonna be home soon?_"

Casey sighed – and much to his dismay, he felt a tear trickling down his face. "No, Becca, I'm afraid not," he replied. "In fact… I'm sorry, but I'm…"

He swallowed the lump that had developed in his throat. "I'm not gonna be able to walk you down the aisle," he said softly.

"_What?!_" he heard. "_Daddy, what's going on?_"

"_Casey?_" he heard Chuck's voice say. There was nothing from Walker, though. He knew that she already understood.

"Becca, listen. John's gonna take good care of you. If he doesn't, I'll haunt him for the rest of his miserable existence."

"_Daddy…_"

"Becca… I've been hurt, pretty bad. I'm not gonna make it much longer. But you need to know that I'm gonna be taking some very bad people with me."

"_Daddy, no!_"

It was clear at that point that Chuck had realized what was going on. "_Casey?! John! Get the fuck out of there!_"

"It's too late, Bartowski," Casey growled. His voice sounded weak, faint. "But let me tell you something, bub."

He took a deep breath – and winced as pain stabbed through his chest. "Bartowski… it's been an honor. You would've made a great agent."

"_Casey…_" Chuck didn't say anything else, but Casey could hear what sounded distinctly like sobs coming over the channel.

"Walker?"

"_I'm here,_" he heard Sarah say, her voice thick with emotion.

"You were the best partner I ever could've hoped for. I can't imagine having worked with anybody else for the last thirty years."

He heard Sarah sob, and then force out, "_Thank you, John_."

"And Becca… I love you," Casey sighed. The tears were running freely down his face now. "I'm gonna miss you. Tell your mom that I love her, too."

"_Daddy! Please!_"

It broke his heart to hear his little girl like that. But this had to happen. And he could tell that the end was near, anyway.

* * *

**USS **_**Montana**_

"_Conn, weapons. Missiles are thirty seconds from impact._"

Lisa looked over at her mother. Sarah Bartowski's face was wet with tears, her eyes puffy and red.

"John, the missiles are almost there," Sarah said quietly. "Good luck."

* * *

**Canberra**

Casey smiled. His vision was going dark. "Thanks, Walker. See you on the other side."

He didn't disconnect the call, leaving the channel open for the Tomahawks to track on as he lay down on the ground. He smiled and closed his eyes.

Everything was going to be just fine.

* * *

Chuck and John stood by the side of the road and watched the Tomahawks as they descended at more than five hundred miles an hour. Even though they impacted a mile away, the ground shook as they exploded.

And the call from John Casey went dead.


	12. Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

"_Friends and family, we are gathered here today to remember and celebrate the life of Brigadier General John Malcolm Casey. We remember the man who served his country for forty-three years. We celebrate the life of a husband and a father. We honor the sacrifice that was made, the last full measure of devotion to his country and to his friends."_

* * *

**6:00 P.M., Australian Eastern Daylight Time  
Friday, April 16****th****, 2038  
Sydney, NSW, Australia**

Chuck Bartowski and his son John stood silently on the dock, watching the tugboat push USS _Montana_ slowly into its berth. Despite the resounding success of the mission, there was no broom lashed to _Montana_'s mast, no Jolly Roger flying from her conning tower – just the American flag, fluttering at half-mast.

As the tug pushed _Montana_'s stern around, Chuck's eyes widened. "My God," he gasped, seeing the damage to _Montana_'s port side that wasn't evident from within the boat.

USS_ Seawolf_'s torpedo had done quite a bit of damage to _Montana_. There were tears and gashes all along the port side of the _Virginia_-class boat, and while none was serious, to somebody unfamiliar with the workings of a submarine – such as the Bartowski men – they all looked as though they could've been fatal.

Further out, they could see another, larger tugboat towing in a much larger submarine. "SSN-21," John mused, squinting at the boat. "That's the _Seawolf_ – and my God, look at the hole in her side!"

Chuck let out a low whistle. Somebody, or something, had somehow done even more damage to the lead boat of the _Seawolf_ class than had been done to his daughter's boat.

A third submarine slowly steamed past _Montana_'s berth, under her own power. This one was flying the Australian flag, and had "Brisbane" painted on the conning tower. It slowed nearly to a crawl and turned to enter a berth.

Chuck's attention was drawn back to _Montana_ as a gangplank was deployed from the dock to the conning tower. He could see Lisa standing in the conning tower – and she would remain there for awhile, until her responsibilities to the boat were completed. Sarah and Alex, however, were headed down the gangplank as soon as it was secured.

Sarah looked at that moment about how Chuck imagined he looked – drained, tired, and old. He was pretty sure that the emotional blow of Casey's death had been just as hard for her as it had been for him.

Neither Sarah or Chuck said anything – he just embraced her, and held her. She sighed deeply, and it almost felt like she was shivering. It was a fairly cool night, and she was probably exhausted, so he wasn't surprised at all.

After about fifteen minutes, Lisa came down the gangplank to join her parents and her siblings, standing on the dock. She turned around, and saw the damage to her boat.

"Jesus," she whispered. "We're lucky to be alive."

* * *

"_The first time I met John Casey, he was tied to a bed. I kid you not. This was in Prague, in the Czech Republic, back in 2004. We were working with a DEA agent who had a penchant for… well… let's just say her definition of 'fun' was a little different than the rest of ours._

"_I never would've imagined that I would spend the better part of the rest of his life as his partner. He just seemed so brash and unapproachable at the time. But I learned better. There was a reason he had gotten himself the nickname 'Sugar Bear'."_

* * *

"Commander Bartowski?" they all heard. The entire family turned around, and Lisa's jaw dropped.

Standing behind them were Sam Tyler, the President's National Intelligence Director, and Admiral Theo Palcikas, the Chief of Naval Operations. Lisa immediately snapped to attention and saluted Admiral Palcikas.

"At ease, Commander," he said, returning the salute. "Report?"

"Sir, at 1200 hours, I boarded USS _Montana_ in the company of CIA Agent Sarah Walker and State Department employee Alexandra Bartowski. The _Montana_ was deployed on a mission for the Intersect project.

"At this time, I discovered that Captain Leonard Wilkinson was a member of the domestic terror group known as Fulcrum."

"Bloody lovely," Tyler muttered.

"I planned to detain him; however, he was holding Ms. Bartowski at gunpoint, and as such, Agent Walker believed that she had no choice but to summarily execute Captain Wilkinson."

Admiral Palcikas' face took on a look of shock. "Agent Walker?!" Tyler snapped.

"Tell me, Director Tyler, what you would do if somebody had your daughter at gunpoint," Sarah said dryly.

Tyler sighed and shook his head. "Continue, Commander."

"Under my orders, we took _Montana_ out. Using intelligence generated by Brigadier General John Casey, we located a Fulcrum complex near Canberra that housed a replica of the Intersect computer. It was determined that this had to be destroyed at all costs.

"During the targeting of the Fulcrum complex, we were ambushed by the submarine USS _Seawolf_, which was under the command of another Fulcrum agent, Captain Merritt Banks. Despite _Seawolf_'s attack, we were able to successfully deploy four Tomahawk missiles; however, due to the attack, we were not able to properly target them.

"_Seawolf_'s attack was largely unsuccessful, and using an emergency protocol we were able to target the missiles. _Seawolf_ attempted to conduct a further attack on us; however, they were interdicted by the Australian submarine _Brisbane_, which launched a counter-attack on _Seawolf_, causing severe damage to the boat.

"Once the Tomahawk missiles were properly targeted, we deployed rescue teams to _Seawolf_, temporarily evacuating most of her crew, until it was determined that she was still seaworthy as long as she remained surfaced. At that time, we returned her crew to the boat, with the exception of Captain Banks, who was placed under arrest onboard USS _Montana_."

Chuck spoke up at that point. "We're not entirely sure what happened in the Fulcrum complex," he said. "What we know is this: General Casey released me from captivity – Bryce Larkin had me held hostage. He then planned to return to the main part of the complex with a transmitter for the Tomahawks to track on, and then evacuate.

"However, he was apparently badly injured and his transmitter destroyed. I can only surmise that Bryce was wearing a bulletproof vest when Casey shot him, and in return, shot Casey and destroyed the transmitter when Casey returned to the complex. However, Casey was able to use his cellular implant to allow the missiles to achieve a lock, and as we did not witness Bryce Larkin escape, I think it's safe to assume that Casey was able to disable or kill him before the Tomahawks reached the installation."

* * *

"_The first time I met John Casey, he was pointing a gun at me. No joke. There I was, on a helipad in downtown Los Angeles, and he's got a gun aimed at me._

"_I'm pretty sure he hated me at first. Oh, sure, he didn't seem to mind being assigned to Los Angeles instead of Washington, but the fact that he was stuck working as a retail clerk at a Buy More, watching over me, kind of grated at him._

"_Over time, though, John became one of my closest friends, almost like family. In fact, I guess in the end, he technically was family – his daughter and my son got married by the justice of the peace less than 48 hours before he passed."_

* * *

Director Tyler and Admiral Palcikas were less than pleased with the whole situation. Palcikas was even less pleased by the fact that two of his boats were going to be in Australia for a minimum of four weeks before they were seaworthy enough to return to San Diego – "Where they will probably both promptly be decommissioned," he informed a disappointed Lisa Bartowski.

However, Palcikas did grant Lisa leave to fly back to the United States for Casey's imminent funeral. "I'll pull some strings, make sure that he can be at Arlington," Sam Tyler promised.

And so the Bartowski family flew back to Los Angeles, to spend a day or two recovering, relaxing, just being around one another after the week from hell.

Early Sunday morning, the recovery crew working at the Fulcrum site reached the spot where the Intersect computer had been. It was well and truly destroyed. There were two bodies in the room with the computer.

One of them was badly burned, and barely recognizable. However, DNA and dental records confirmed that it was Bryce Larkin. The other body, on the other hand…

The body of John Casey was almost untouched. The initial explosion had caused a protective cocoon of plaster to fall on his body. He looked happy in death, a smile on his face, his gun in his hand.

* * *

**10:30 A.M., Eastern Daylight Time  
Monday, April 19****th****, 2038  
Arlington National Cemetery, Arlington, VA**

"We hold in our hearts the hope that we will encounter our brother, John Casey, again someday in heaven," the priest intoned. "And now, we bid him farewell. He has led a full and prosperous life on this earth, and surely God will welcome him into His eternal glory."

An Air Force major, standing to the side, stepped forward, and called out, "Ladies and gentlemen, I would ask that at this time, you please rise to honor Brigadier General John Malcolm Casey."

The entire gathered assembly rose. Chuck took Sarah's hand in his own and squeezed it – this wasn't going to be easy for either of them.

Seven men with M4 rifles stood some distance from the assembly – six first lieutenants and one captain. The major quickly covered the distance between the assembly and the seven riflemen. "DETAIL, ATTEN-HUT!" he bellowed.

The seven men snapped to attention, their rifles coming up in their hands, the muzzles level with their shoulders. "DETAIL, PRESENT ARMS!"

The rifles spun around in front of the Air Force officers, coming to rest with the muzzles level with their sternums, triggers facing outwards. "DETAIL, READY ARMS!"

The rifles quickly flipped upward. Each officer held the butt of his rifle against his shoulder, cheek against the stock of the rifle, rifle aimed just above the tree line. "READY! AIM! FIRE!"

The first impossibly loud report of the seven rifles firing caused Chuck to flinch. He braced himself for the next one. "READY! AIM! FIRE!"

The second report sounded. "READY! AIM! FIRE!" And the third report.

With each volley, the captain standing on the end of the line had, rather than simply ejecting the spent shell from his rifle, actually taken the cartridge and handed it to the major. "DETAIL, AT EASE!"

The seven officers returned to standing at ease, and the major walked toward the coffin, holding the three shells in his hand. Two Air Force colonels in dress blue uniform stood at either end of Casey's coffin. His entire honor guard had been made up of officers – an almost unheard of event at military funerals.

The two colonels turned to face each other, and they each took a corner of the American flag draped over his coffin in each hand. Lifting it, they held it taut. It was folded in half, the blue starfield on the bottom, and then in half again, leaving the starfield visible on the outside of the fold.

Slowly and carefully, the colonel on the opposite end of the flag from the starfield folded the corner over until it met the opposite side of the flag, making a triangle. The major placed one of the spent shells inside the fold and called out, "DUTY!"

The colonel made two more folds. The second shell was placed inside the fold, and the major called out, "HONOR!" Two more folds were made, and the third shell was placed in the fold. The major called out, "COUNTRY!" One final fold was made, leaving the flag as simply a triangle of blue fabric marked with white stars, three rifle shells resting inside.

The other colonel took the flag, and silently walked to where Maya McCarthy Casey and Rebecca Casey sat, both dressed in black. He knelt, and presented the flag to Maya. She took it from him and whispered, "Thank you."

The colonel nodded, then rose and returned to the coffin. The captain had walked toward the assembly, and having reached the area, bent down, and lifted a bugle from the stand it had been resting on. Bringing it to his lips, he slowly and softly began to play Taps.

The tears were now flowing freely down Chuck's face. He didn't care. He made no effort to staunch the flow. He looked over at Sarah. She was attempting to keep up a stoic, professional front, but her eyes were clearly glistening with unspilled tears.

As the bugler reached the end of Taps, however, a rumble was heard. That rumble turned into the unmistakable roar of fighter jets, as four nearly sixty year-old F-16 Fighting Falcons – the first fighter aircraft Casey had flown – zoomed into view.

They came flying down the Anacostia River, low and slow. As they reached the Pentagon, one began to pull up and away, creating a missing man formation as the four aircraft roared over Arlington National Cemetery.

That was when Sarah's front finally cracked. The tears began to pour down her face, and she let loose one enormous sob, turning and burying her face in Chuck's chest. He wrapped his arms around his wife, trying to offer some measure of comfort to her.

As the sound of the F-16s faded , the priest stepped forward again. "John Casey," he said, "it is from dust you came, and to dust you shall return. May the Lord bless you and keep. May he make His face to shine upon you, and be merciful to you, and give you peace. Amen."

He stepped back, and the lift that the coffin was on slowly lowered it into the grave. As the coffin descended, Maya stepped forward. She bent, picked up a handful of soil, and scattered it on top of Casey's coffin. She then dropped a rose into the grave. "Good-bye, John," she whispered.

Rebecca picked up a handful of soil, and like her mother, she too dropped a rose into the grave along with the soil. Then Chuck stepped forward. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a small sheet of paper, which he released and let float into the grave.

As Casey's photo of Ronald Reagan came to rest on top of the coffin, Chuck smiled through his tears. He knew that the former NSA agent would approve. "See you around, big guy."


	13. Epilogue: All Good Things

"John Marcus Bartowski, do you pledge yourself to Rebecca Casey? Do you swear that you will remain faithful to her, in sickness and in health, for rich or for poor, better or worse, through the good times, and the bad, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

* * *

"This panel was convened by the United States Navy for the purposes of investigating the events of April 16th, 2038, concerning the submarine USS _Montana_ and the submarine USS _Seawolf_. Of immediate concern to the panel were the following:

"One: that the captain of USS _Montana_ was summarily executed by an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency.

"Two: that USS _Montana_ did knowingly take belligerent action against a friendly nation during a maritime patrol.

"Three: that USS _Seawolf_ did knowingly take belligerent action against a submarine of the United States Navy on the orders of an agent of the terrorist organization known as Fulcrum."

* * *

"Rebecca Lynn Casey, do you pledge yourself to John Bartowski? Do you swear that you will remain faithful to him, in sickness and in health, for rich or for poor, better or worse, through the good times, and the bad, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

* * *

"It is the judgment of this panel that:

"One: the United States Navy, and specifically its submarine service, must immediately enact stricter security measures in order to prevent such a future incident of enemy agents infiltrating its ranks, especially two agents rising to the rank of captain.

"Two: the crew of USS _Montana_, specifically Lieutenant Commander Lisa Bartowski and Lieutenant Richard Milliken, did commit such acts against the Commonwealth of Australia that could be regarded as _casus belli_.

"However, due to the unique nature of _Montana_'s on-going assignment and mission, it is determined that Commander Bartowski and Lieutenant Milliken did both act within the charter of their mission, specifically, fulfilling the duties of the Intersect project. As such, all charges against them shall be dismissed. This panel will not order the convention of a court-martial, nor will it recommend disciplinary action against Commander Bartowski or Lieutenant Milliken."

* * *

**1:30 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time  
Saturday, June 19****th****, 2038  
Zuma Beach, Malibu, California**

"John Marcus Bartowski and Rebecca Lynn Casey, you have pledged yourselves to each other before God and before man. Therefore, by the power vested in me by God and by the state of California, I hereby pronounce you man and wife."

John and Becca smiled at each other. "What God has brought together, let no man put asunder," the priest finished. "Mr. Bartowski, you may kiss the bride."

And John did just that. He leaned in and kissed Becca, prompting a spontaneous standing ovation from the crowd.

Chuck and Sarah looked on in unabashed joy. "That's our son up there getting married," Chuck whispered to Sarah.

"I know," she whispered back.

It had been an ideal day at Zuma Beach. The temperature was in the high 70s, the sun was high in the sky, and the offshore breeze was just perfect.

Only one thing had been missing.

It had been Devin Woodcomb that walked Becca Casey down the aisle that afternoon. When she had asked him to do it, he had been moved to tears, which was the first time that anybody could remember anything like that ever happening.

But Devin had had a truly awesome trick up his sleeve. He had arranged for a small easel to be placed up by where Becca and John would exchange vows, on Becca's side. On that easel was a black and white portrait of John Casey.

It was taken from an old picture of him – a photograph of Casey in his dress blues, taken back in 1999, when he was a captain, and first getting involved with the NSA. But regardless of its age, it had still brought a smile to many people's faces – Casey was there to see his daughter get married.

As John and Becca walked down the aisle, Chuck and Sarah looked at each other and smiled. "I don't know why, but this makes me think of another beach, a very long time ago," Sarah whispered.

Chuck laughed quietly. "Would that be the time you asked me to trust you, or the time that I proposed and then we, well, you know…"

Sarah's smile got bigger. "I was kind of thinking of a combination of the two…"

Chuck's smile got downright mischievous. "Well, you know, I'm sure we COULD sneak away from the reception for a bit…"

Sarah stood on her toes, leaned in, and kissed Chuck. "God, you're a horny bastard."

* * *

**3:30 P.M., Pacific Daylight Time  
Tuesday, October 19****th****, 2038  
US Naval Base San Diego, San Diego, California**

"Lisa Erin Bartowski, by order of the President of the United States, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Captain, United States Navy, with all the responsibilities and privileges thereof."

Lisa couldn't help but smile. She had been tabbed for promotion to commander long before the whole debacle in Australia, but afterwards, the President had decided that due to meritorious service, she would jump right over commander and become one of the youngest captains in the history of the US Navy.

The only problem was, she was a captain without a vessel. Of the two she had served on, USS _Seawolf_ had been declared unsalvageable when she returned to the United States. She had been donated to the City of San Diego, which planned to turn her into a floating museum.

USS _Montana_ had gone into a dry dock there in San Diego, and never come back out. Not even Lisa was permitted to access the dock. She knew it was silly to worry about what was happening to the submarine, but _Montana_ was HER boat, her home. Even if the Virginia-class sub was being dismantled and turned into high-quality titanium razor blades, she wanted to know.

Admiral Wayne Madden, COMSUBPAC (commander, submarine force, Pacific fleet), pinned the eagle signifying the rank of captain onto Lisa's uniform. "Congratulations, Captain Bartowski," he said quietly. "Would you like to see your new command?"

Lisa's eyes widened. "Yes, sir," she replied.

Admiral Madden smiled, and returned to the microphone. It was an odd crowd at the reviewing stand – the crew of the _Montana_, the crew of the Australian sub _Brisbane_, and the Bartowski and Casey families. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor and pleasure to introduce to you Captain Bartowski's first command," he said.

A long blast on an air horn was heard – a ship was entering the channel. "This boat has, one could say, been to hell and back," Madden continued. "She has a long and storied record, most of which can't be revealed for many, many years to come."

Lisa's eyes widened. It COULDN'T be.

"Over a month-long period, a battery of intensive tests and studies were conducted on this boat," Madden informed the crowd. "It was discovered that for whatever reason, she is far more resilient and durable than the remainder of her class – which, given her record, surprised few."

This garnered a few chuckles from the crowd. Lisa looked out at the crew of the _Montana_ – and Lieutenant Commander Rick Milliken looked back at her, a twinkle in his eye. What exactly did he know that she didn't?

"This boat was scheduled to be decommissioned," Madden said. "However, given her ability to endure, the Navy decided it would be in its best interests to instead refit the boat. Her electronics have been upgraded to state of the art, and her propulsion system has been replaced by the pumpjet system pioneered by the Seawolf class and perfected by Australia's Sydney class."

Madden smiled. "We also removed a particularly troublesome quirk from this boat. No longer does she have to worry about making too much noise when running at high speed."

Motion beyond Madden caught Lisa's eye. The submarine that had indicated it was entering the channel was moving toward them. She looked beyond Madden –

The sail of the boat said "789". She couldn't believe it. It was, in fact –

"I give you Captain Bartowski's maiden command, USS _Montana_."

_Montana_ rounded the bend in the channel, displaying her port side to the crowd. The boat's crew leapt to their feet, applauding, whooping and hollering wildly. Lisa couldn't help it. She started laughing, and jumped off the reviewing stand, joining her crew.

"Captain!" she heard shouted. She turned around, and there was Commander Milliken standing behind her. "Isn't this fantastic?!"

"You have no idea, Rick!" she shouted back, her grin getting even bigger.

That's when she got the biggest shock of her life. Rick Milliken threw his arms around her and kissed her – right in front of the Pacific Fleet flag staff.

And she didn't object one bit.

* * *

**9:10 P.M., Pacific Standard Time  
Friday, November 19****th****, 2038  
Cedars-Sinai Medical Center  
Los Angeles, California**

Rebecca Lynn Bartowski delivered a healthy baby girl just after 9:00 P.M., seven months to the day after her father's funeral. The little girl weighed eight pounds, three ounces, and was twenty inches long.

John and Becca had picked out a name for her nearly three months beforehand. Her middle name would be in honor of her great-aunt, but her first name would be a name that, while usually associated with a man in the minds of her family, could easily be a girl's name.

They named her Casey Eleanor Bartowski.

* * *

**5:00 P.M., Mountain Standard Time  
Monday, July 2****nd****, 2063  
Mountain View Hospice, Flagstaff, Arizona**

Casey Bartowski's car hummed as it moved through the streets of Flagstaff. It would probably not have been recognized as a car by somebody from a century before – it looked like a pod, with a clear bubble over the top. However, it was far safer than anything from a century before – technological advancements made for stronger materials, it ran completely on electricity, and as Casey had just discovered, it could drive 750 miles and still have enough charge for at least 200 more miles.

Of course, if it had had five people in it – one in each seatbelt – it probably couldn't have gone that far. But that was irrelevant.

Casey had decided, several months beforehand, to write her master's thesis on the incredible lives of her grandparents, Chuck and Sarah Bartowski. It had taken quite a while to get the federal powers that be to sign off on it, but finally, the CIA had given in, with the caveat that Chuck and Sarah both had to be dead before it was published.

Casey initially balked at that, but her grandparents – both in their eighties, with Sarah dying of a degenerative nerve disease – had persuaded her that it was worth it. And so, with everything finally cleared, she had set off from Palo Alto at 5:00 that morning, headed for Flagstaff.

She was headed through town on Route 66. It boggled her mind that there could still be a town as small and rustic-looking as Flagstaff. Despite the fact that the Phoenix-Tucson metroplex two hours to the south boasted a population of 44 million, Flagstaff itself was still home to less than 100,000, and could still legitimately call itself a college town, with Northern Arizona University being the main draw.

Casey supposed that that was why her grandparents had moved there – as they got older, they wanted to escape the insanity of Los Angeles, and what better town than one such as this? Then, when Sarah had begun to lose the battle to Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, there was a hospice right down the street from where they lived, so they didn't have to leave Flagstaff.

Casey turned left onto Switzer Canyon Drive. According to the map, Mountain View Hospice was two blocks north of Route 66… and, yep, there it was.

Her Toyota Spark rolled to a stop in the parking lot of the hospice center. Casey got out, pulling the handle to open the charging port as she went. Unreeling the car's cable, she plugged it into the outlet set up by the parking space.

She headed inside. "I'm here to see the Bartowskis," she informed the front desk attendant. He looked up at her.

"Name and relation?"

"Casey Bartowski… I'm their granddaughter."

He looked back down at a list. "Okay, they're expecting you. Room 114 – down the hall, on your left."

Casey headed down the hall, and knocked on the door when she reached 114. It was opened, and there was her grandfather.

"Casey!" Chuck Bartowski boomed with a smile. He wrapped her in a hug. "How's my favorite granddaughter?"

"She's still your ONLY granddaughter, Grandpa," Casey replied with a laugh. She had somehow ended up with two brothers and six male cousins.

Chuck smiled. "Right, of course."

"Hi… Casey…"

Casey looked over to her grandmother's bed. Sarah Walker Bartowski lay there, her body wasting away, but a brilliant smile still on her face at the sight of her granddaughter.

"Hi, Grandma!" Casey said, crossing to the bed. She hugged her, and was shocked at how light she felt.

"How… was… the drive?"

Casey shrugged as she sat down in a chair by the bed. "It was seven hundred and fifty miles. It's a long drive, Grandma."

"Makes… me glad… I can't… drive anymore." Sarah let out a weak laugh.

Casey smiled and shook her head. "So, you gonna tell me some top secret stuff?"

"Not… secret anymore… been more… than fifty years."

"Oh," Casey said in surprise. "Okay… well, Grandpa's told me pretty much everything after you guys met."

Sarah smiled. "Thank… God."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up. Fifty-four years of marriage, and this is the crap I still take."

"Come… closer and… say that, mister."

Chuck stuck out his tongue, and Casey laughed. Here were her grandparents, 82 and 81 years old, acting like they were 14.

"Alright… let's get… started before your grandfather gets into any more trouble."

Casey looked at Sarah. She hadn't heard her string that many words together without interruption in years.

"I can put together fairly decent strings of words if I really concentrate hard," Sarah rasped. "It just exhausts me, so I try not to do it too often."

"Well, don't strain yourself too much, Grandma," Casey said, worried.

Sarah smiled. "Don't worry. This is definitely worth it."

She propped herself up on one elbow. "So, let's go back sixty-one years, to May 15th, 2002… the day that I joined the CIA…"

_THE END_

* * *

_**Author's Note**__: And that, ladies and gentlemen, marks the end of the last story in the "Bright Side" alternate universe. Writing all the stories within this AU over the last five and a half months has really been quite remarkable and fun._

_I truly hope you have enjoyed reading these stories as much as I've enjoyed writing them. And on that note, I shall say, always look on the Bright Side of life, and keep on Chuckin'._


End file.
